


World Gone Wild

by dridri93



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Gore, Minor Character Death, Zombies, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 13:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4393109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dridri93/pseuds/dridri93
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 2 AU. When a virus is released from a facility in Oregon that turns roughly 1/3 of the population of the world into mindless beasts, known only as Wilds, and affects the other 2/3 in ... other ways, Sam and Dean are caught right in the middle. Suspecting demonic influence on the catastrophe, they pause their hunt for Yellow-Eyes to track down the culprit and kill as many Wilds as they can. As the world dissolves into chaos around them, they must watch each other's backs as their bodies change against their will, under the thrall of the virus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I have a few people to thank, without whom I would have never done this. This is my first Big Bang - I've done some Minis, but this is my longest piece of writing...ever, I think.  
> First so, so many thanks to my wonderful beta Naila, without whom this story would not only be unfinished but also be riddled with typos and inconsistencies. So many hugs!  
> Second, I'd just like to thank [lightthesparks](http://lightthesparks.livejournal.com) for choosing my fic to do some absolutely amazing art for. I'm actually speechless at how lucky I am, and how amazing she is. Seriously, go to her masterpost [HERE](http://lightthesparks.livejournal.com/114644.html) and give her some love!  
> Third, I'd like to thank wendy for modding this amazing challenge year after year.
> 
> This story rose in part from a project in school. I created this world for an original character of mine, and she sort of gets a short cameo in this work as well, although I changed her name and pushed her forward in the world's timeline by quite a bit, not to mention adjusted her backstory just a little bit. This story has been a long time coming,

  
  


It all started so innocuously.

_“This is Christine Johnson, reporting today. The weather is cool and crisp, with highs in the … oh, excuse me. An urgent bulletin was just handed to me. It appears that there has been an accident at a Gemini Biotechnics facility in the Pacific Northwest. An explosion destroyed a testing building, releasing an unknown contaminant. The network is currently contacting Gemini for comments. In order to be safe, please, stay indoors. Boil all water before using it, even if only washing dishes. Stay safe, Portland._

_ " _ _Now, back to the weather …”_

“Hey, Sam!” Dean mused, “Sounds like our kind of thing?”

Sam glanced over from his laptop. “It’s all over the news, Dean. Looks like a natural gas line was ruptured. Nothing unnatural about it. Survivors are even saying they could smell the gas. So unless you want me to start looking up monsters that smell like a sewer and blow up, I’d say leave it.”

“Huh,” Dean grunted. “Okay then.”

“Why’re you even watching the news, Dean?”

“I was flipping channels and the reporter caught my eye. Those lips, Sammy…”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Okay, Dean, no need to wax eloquent about the news reporter. I get it. You’re not watching for the words she’s saying.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Sammy!"

A sudden pause in the background noise of the TV caught their attention.

_“Yes, hello, this is Christine Johnson. I’m here with another urgent bulletin, and a special guest. Introducing Doctor Leonard Hutch, lead geneticist and researcher. Dr. Hutch, you heard about the recent explosion at Gemini Biotechnics, and you immediately called us, demanding a spot. Why?”_

_“Well, Ms. Johnson, I’ll admit that I could have been more polite.”_ Both laughed stiltedly. He sounded nervous. _“But this is extremely urgent. I’ve been trying to shut down the research Gemini has been doing for years.”_

_“Really? Why?”_

_“Because they’re messing with what they don’t understand. You see, I worked for that project five years ago. And even then they were meddling in viral chemistry, in biowarfare using potent viral agents.”_

_“English for us regular people, please, Dr. Hutch.”_

_“Ah, of course. As I was saying, Gemini was altering the genome, the … coding, if you will, of everyday viruses in order to create a, well, a supervirus. They toyed with normal viruses at first, ones that just make people sick and pass through. But then they decided to recode a retrovirus.”_

_“And the difference is?”_

_“A normal virus destroys cells and moves on. Retroviruses, such as HIV, can embed themselves in the host’s genome and lie in wait for years. Gemini also wanted to create something airborne, so that it could be released over enemy territory and cause total havoc._

_“From what I can tell in recent air particle analyses, Gemini succeeded; there is particulate matter spreading at an unprecedented rate outward from the Gemini factory. At the rate I observed, the virus would already have reached up into Seattle and deep into California, not to mention west into Idaho and beyond. The worst property of this specific virus Gemini created is its ability to be carried both by air and by water, so even if it drops out of an air current, as long as it lands in water, it can be carried by water or pulled back into the air by evaporation.”_

_“Oh my. This sounds serious. Is there anything the people of the affected states can do?”_

_“No one knows the effect of this virus yet. We’ll have to wait until symptoms of infection are shown. And honestly, the way this virus is moving, there will be no unaffected state soon. There may not even be an unaffected_ country _, not if the virus gets picked up by the currents.”_

_“So has this been classified as an epidemic, or a pandemic?”_

_“Honestly, Ms. Johnson, we won’t know what to call it until effects are shown. It may be that the virus is nonviable, or nonvirulent.”_

_“How possible is that?”_

_“Honestly? Not very. I’d just like to say, ma’am, that I think this may be the turning point. Nothing will be the same from here on out.”_

The doctor’s face flickered off screen, even as he opened his mouth to continue. _“And that’s all for today, viewers! Please stay tuned for ways in which you can keep you home and family safe from this_ _potential_ _virus outbreak. Again, as Dr. Hutch said, this may be a false alarm. This is Christine Johnson, signing off.”_

The TV flicked off, and Dean started. “Wha’?” he asked.

“The news isn’t going to tell you shit, Dean. They’re too focused on keeping the civilians from rioting. If you want real info about this mess, you need to get online,” Sam muttered, eyes already re-glued to his laptop.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Right. And I guess you’ve already found something.”

Sam shook his head. “Not yet. But you need to pack. We’re going east. I’m getting as far away from this explosion and Oregon in general as we can without crossing an ocean, because from what I’m seeing, this is going to get bad.”

Sam turned the screen of his laptop toward Dean. “This was just uploaded from Portland. Ground zero. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

The video played. It was some chick taping her boyfriend, jabbering about something. Dean was about to motion for Sam to get to the point when the horizon line exploded on the video. He jolted back. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed, only to be cut off by Sam.

“This is where it gets trippy.”

As smoke rose in the background, the girl holding the camera screamed. The camera lens went unfocused, then focused slowly, and the girl kept screaming. When the view stabilized again, her boyfriend lay on the ground, limbs convulsing and mouth open in a wordless scream. The seizure seemed to go on forever; when it ended, the girl’s quiet sobs as she approached her boyfriend echoed through the speakers. The camera zoomed in on something on the boy’s face, and Dean echoed the girl on-screen. “Oh my God." Blood and grayish fluid leaked from every orifice on the boy’s face – his ears, his tear ducts, his nostrils. His eyes gaped open, bloodshot and empty of recognition, even as his nose twitched.

The girl with the camera began to back away slowly; growls began to filter through the fuzz of the audio. She ran, just as the camera caught the boyfriend jump to his feet, eyes crazed and blood and gray matter trickling down his cheekbones. The video ended there.

Dean stared dumbly at the screen.

Sam nudged him. “Yeah, I know. Fucked up, right? Like nothing we’ve ever seen before.”

Dean shook his head. “What … what happened to the girl? She okay?”

“Yeah, or so the description says. Also says that she’s started to gain some scary muscle mass. Like, body-builder muscle mass. She’s freaked out, man. She says it feels like it’s not even her body anymore; she’s gained more muscle mass hiding in her house than she did going to the gym every other day for years.”

“Sam?” Dean asked, eyes still glued to the screen, where a blurry image of the crazed boyfriend still flickered.

“Yeah?”

“This is so fucked up. We are so fucked.” Sam nodded. “What the hell do we do?”

Sam shrugged. “What we always do. Save people, hunt things. You know, the family business?”

Dean grimaced, but a grin peeked through. “Yeah, whatever, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

-*-*-*-

They packed the car and drove east, didn’t stop until Dean was crashed out in the passenger seat from a fourteen-hour stint in the driver’s seat and Sam, who’d replaced him around the western Nebraskan border, was about to follow him. He found the next highway sign; they were in Illinois, almost to Indiana. He sighed. That had to be far enough. He pulled off at the next exit, parking the Impala in the lot of the first motel he saw.

He walked into the lobby of the motel only to find the person manning the desk glued to the TV screen behind him.

A different newscaster, face worried, gestured to a map behind him. _“So far, the Gemini virus has been detected throughout Oregon, Washington, and Idaho. It’s moving further through Montana and down into California as I speak, carried by prevailing winds. Leading meteorologists and biologists are worried that the virus will not cease its outward movement before it reaches the Rockies; if the airborne virus crosses the Continental Divide, it will be carried by water to the east coast, and onward. Engineers are working furiously to devise a filter which catches the viral particle; here’s Mitch O’Connell, leading engineer of Penn State. Mitch, how’s work going?”_

_“Well, Mr. Meny, work’s not going as well as I’d like. See, the problem of this virus is that it’s small. It’s so small that we’re having to practically reinvent filter systems constructed with nanofiber, just to catch it. But let me tell you; when we get these filters ready for popular distribution, the air inside our houses will be cleaner than ever!”_

The news anchor chuckled. His face was still drawn. _“Good one, Mr. O’Connell. Keep us posted, if you could.”_

 _“Of course, Mr. Meny.”_ The news coverage flicked to weather reports for Chicago.

The meteorologist nattered on about high winds and the possibility of heavy rain in three days. _“Hopefully the filters will be complete by then!”_ the man twittered, trying to smile.

The motel clerk sighed and turned, only to jump when he caught sight of Sam. Sam held up his hands, and the other man relaxed. “Hey, kid,” the clerk greeted, “You startled me.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Sam said, smiling disarmingly. “My big brother always tells me he needs to fit me with a bell.”

They shared a laugh, but the clerk’s trailed off. “You hear about this mess?” he asked, pointing at the TV, where more anchors talked among themselves.

Sam nodded. “Yeah. Me and my brother, we just drove for as long as we could to get out of there. We saw the news the day of, saw some YouTube footage of the effects, and got out of there.”

He got a suspicious look. “You sure you didn’t get exposed?”

“Yeah, of course,” Sam replied, holding his hands out. “From what I’m reading online and seeing on YouTube, this thing takes hold fast. Either you go nuts immediately upon exposure or you don’t. Me and my brother, we’re clean, I swear.”

The suspicious look didn’t fade, but a key landed in Sam’s hand. The clerk waved at him. “Go on then. As long as you don’t maul me in my sleep, yeah?”

Sam nodded. “Ah, what room?”

“Thirteen.” Sam grimaced. “Yeah, yeah, don’t give me that. You’re not the only late-night runaway from the west. That was the only one left.”

Sam turned and went back to the Impala, shaking Dean awake. “C’mon, Dean, we got a room. Bed, man. Your neck is going to kill you tomorrow.”

Dean groaned and flapped a hand. “Wha’ever, S’mmy. Go ‘way.”

Sam sighed and looked around. The clerk was glued to the TV screen again, and room thirteen was only fifty feet away. “Okay, then, dude, you asked for it,” he grunted. He grabbed Dean and lifted him, huffing in surprise. “Dude, you lose weight?”

Dean snorted. “No, dumbass, you’re just a superfreak.”

“Fuck you, too, princess,” Sam returned, eyebrow crumpled in thought. Dean hadn’t been this easy to carry … ever. It was like he’d lost twenty pounds, or like Sam had suddenly gotten a hell of a lot stronger.

He decided to disregard it. They’d think about it in the morning. It was too late for this shit.

-*-*-*-

The next morning, the buzz of the TV filled the room, as did the whirring of Sam’s laptop. _“Portland has gone dark, I repeat, Portland and the surrounding area is no longer sending in any sort of data. No one is getting communication from Portland. Most of Washington is also becoming difficult to contact, as is northern California. With Idaho, it’s difficult to tell, but Boise’s weather station hasn’t sent in any weather data in hours. Utah is slowly going dark – the radio silence is spreading from Portland. Could this be the virus? Or is it the beasts caught on blurry YouTube footage?_

_ " _ _I’m sure that by now you have all seen this iconic footage of a young man becoming something … else. Even our science team is puzzled as to what causes this mental decay. With us today we have leading biologist Dr. Yolanda Louden, who specializes in …”_

The other woman on the screen began to speak. _“Neuroscience and genetics. Honestly, if I didn’t know any better, Ms. Henley, I’d say that some of the brain matter of that poor boy on that footage had been dissolved, broken down. I would attribute it to apoptosis, the programmed death of cells activated by codes in the DNA, but that makes no sense. No organism would hobble itself so much by destroying brain matter.”_

_“Could it be the virus?”_

_“It may. That may be one of the effects. The only question, becomes, then: why isn’t it affecting everyone the same? Is there some kind of genetic marker?”_

The anchor chuckled, raising a hand. _“Don’t ask me, Dr. Louden. I majored in news media, not biology; I’m so lost it isn’t even funny.”_

The scientist tilted her head. _“That’s what I’m worried about, Ms. Henley. So many of your colleagues around the nation are treating this like some kind of passing fad. It’s not. This is a retrovirus. It will encode itself into our very DNA, the very thing that makes us unique, and from what I’ve seen of quick sample testing, it will also target germ cells, from where eggs and sperm rise. No future generation is safe. This virus will not go away; it will not simply cease to exist because of fancy filters or antivirals. It’s a part of us now.”_ Her screen flickered out, turning black. The anchor chuckled nervously.

_“What an illuminating talk! I’d like to thank Dr. Louden for speaking with us today; I’m sure we all learned something. Now, on to the breaking news – a new filter has been developed that stops all but the tiniest particles through. Is it enough to protect your home? Stay tuned; it’s coming up next.”_

Sam snorted, listening to canned music as a Herpexia commercial began. “Still watching the news, man? What have I told you, look online. Better info out there, less of a keep-people-calm mindset.”

Silence.

“Dean? You okay?”

Sam glanced over to find Dean clutching his cell phone. “What’s wrong, Dean?” he asked, wary now.

Dean clutched the cell phone even tighter. “Sam, I can’t get ahold of Bobby.”

Sam sucked in a breath, recalled the screaming and the blood and the gray matter. Not Bobby. He ventured, “You tried all of his phones?”

Dean turned, eyes narrow. “ _Yes_ , Sam, I tried all of his phones. It’s not like I’m a fucking idiot, dammit.”

Sam raised his hands. “Hey, just had to check. You want to go back and check it out?” He didn’t mention that it meant heading back toward the virus. They both knew it; they also both didn’t give two shits about some virus when it was _Bobby_.

“What else can we do?” Dean stared at him. Sam could see his own thoughts reflected.

What if they found Bobby as crazed as the other kid? What could they do? Better question: _How_ could they do it? It was _Bobby_ , for Christ’s sake.

Sam pushed himself to his feet, chucked over the Impala keys. “You drive, man. I’m beat from driving all last night.” He pretended not to notice Dean’s shoulders relaxing, relieved at the possibility of losing himself in a roaring engine and hot tarmac, in mullet rock (which Sam would tolerate, just this once) and the smell of leather and gun oil and open road.

Dean took the offered hand and pulled himself up. “C’mon, Sammy,” he hummed, “Let’s go check on the old man.” He walked toward the lobby to turn in their key, and Sam packed their duffels into the trunk. They were on the road five minutes later, windows cracked, “Shook Me All Night Long” blasting out of the speakers. Sam smiled weakly to himself and relaxed back into the seat.

Everything had to be okay. It was _Bobby_ after all. No wacko virus could beat that old codger.

-*-*-*-

They’d been driving for hours. Sam had kept asking Dean if he wanted to switch out once the sun started setting, but Dean kept refusing. That was before he refused to talk at all, and left the radio to fill the silence.

That _goddamn_ radio.

_ " _ _Beware of Wilds in the area. I repeat, Wilds are beginning to overrun Pierre, South Dakota, and neighboring cities. Stay out of cities. Watch for staggering movements interspersed with bursts of speed; Wilds’ brain chemistry leads to erratic movement patterns, but when … when food is scented, they become extremely dangerous. Do not attempt to take on Wilds._ _ " _

Sam snapped, “Dean. Turn the damn radio off. I’m tired of listening to the same message over and over again.”

Dean didn’t respond, staring out at the quiet landscape. Every so often, another car passed, going in the other direction. Every time, the other driver stared as the Impala passed.

No one else was traveling west.

_ " _ _Beware of Wilds in the –_ _ " _

_Snap_. Sam flicked the dial off, silencing the radio announcer. Dean glanced over. The silence grew suffocating.

Dean reached out to turn on the radio.

Sam snarled, “Fuck this.” He slapped Dean’s hand away and turned to his brother. “Look, Dean, stop trying to do what you always do. I’m not going to listen to some _fucking_ newscaster babble about Wilds – who the fuck named the damn things anyway? – just because you want something to fill the silence. I will put up with your damn music, I will even listen to you sing along. But I am not listening to that shit. So we’re fucking talking, because you’re obviously avoiding _something_. And I’m fucking done with it.”

Dean stared out at the road. Sam huffed, still tense. Silence fell as the Impala rumbled under their feet.

Dean accelerated, and the rumble of the car’s revving engine almost buried his words. “What if we’re too late, Sammy?” he whispered, voice cracking.

Sam deflated. ”C’mon, Dean,” he replied, careful to speak quietly. He didn’t want to push his brother back into his quiet, stoic shell. “You know Bobby’s the toughest, crotchetiest old geezer in the States. Whatever this thing is, whatever these Wilds are, he can handle it.”

Dean nodded, face still pensive. “I just keep seeing that video, Sam. Hearing that one newscaster. What if whatever that virus is got Bobby like it got that kid? What if…” He didn’t say it, but they both knew it. What if they had to put Bobby down, because he’d turned? It was the horrible truth of the drive, the weight hanging in the air.

Sam shook his head. “Nah, Dean. Don’t think that way. When we get there, Bobby’ll be just fine, holed up in that old house of his. He’s got Rumsfeld to watch his back, remember? And animals aren’t affected by this virus, they’ve proved it already.”

Dean hummed a shaky agreement and kept driving. The silence descended again, just as oppressive as before. Sam switched on the radio to get some sort of background noise.

_ " _ _Beware of Wilds in the area. I repeat, Wilds have overrun Pierre and are moving west at an unprecedented pace. We’re evacuating our station in Sioux Falls now. Scattered Wilds have already been spotted. Anyone still in the state must evacuate. I repeat, evacuate South Dakota now. Move east. If possible, board an international flight to England or France. This epidemic is not slowing down. Again, Pierre has been overrun. Sioux Falls is about to be. Get out of South Dakota. This is Trevor Lane, signing off for the last time in Sioux Falls._ _ " _

The brothers stared at each other, and looked around. There were no cars in sight, and thinking back, there had been none for some time. Dean fixated on the road ahead and pressed the accelerator.

They had to get to Bobby’s. When they got there, everything would turn out all right.

It had to.

-*-*-*-

When the Impala rolled into Singer Salvage, everything was dead quiet, and the sun was almost set. Dean cut the engine before the car had even stopped, not wanting to advertise their presence more than they already had. They both stepped out of the car and smelled blood.

Dean stared at Sam silently, eyes hard, as he paced to the trunk. He propped the gun compartment open and started pulling out anything he thought could be useful. Machetes, pistols, shotguns – it all was either tucked onto his person or handed to Sam. Sam took everything handed to him, still trying to hear some sign of life.

Even a pained yell would have been welcome at that point.

But the silence hung over everything. The sound of the trunk lid closing startled a lone buzzard off of its perch on a stack of scrap cars. The brothers glanced at each other.

Not good. The carrion birds had already shown up.

Dean signaled that he’d take point. Sam nodded, positioning himself to cover his brother’s back. He kept his gun cocked, safety off. If anything jumped at him from the stacks, he’d need a quick reaction time.

Dean’s gasp upon entering Bobby’s house almost made Sam turn from his watch at the still-open door. He could smell the blood, hear the buzzing flies. Something had gone horribly wrong. The knowledge of that sat heavy in his gut.

“Sammy,” Dean whispered, “It’s not Bobby. But I don’t know who it is.”

Closing the door, Sam turned to find a bloody mess of flesh and gore and entrails spread over Bobby’s living room floor, spattering the books and staining the rug. He wrinkled his nose and replied, “Whoever they were, whatever did that was hungry, man. Look at the bite marks on his arm.” Bite marks didn’t cover it. Chunks of flesh and sinew had been ripped from the unrecognizable man’s (even that was a guess) arms and torso.

Dean made a face. “Gross,” he whispered, but knelt to look at the marks.

Sam kept an eye on the outside through a window, hoping that Bobby would appear from the stacks, Rumsfeld at his side, shotgun in hand. “Heart still there?”

Dean poked around with the tip of his machete. “Ugh,” he moaned quietly, “Think so. Can’t tell. It’s all a mess of torn flesh in here. There’s not a lot that _hasn’t_ been chewed on. Poor bastard.”

“You thinking werewolf?” Sam asked, already almost knowing the answer. Dreading it.

“No way,” Dean replied, “Too messy. Wolves claw a bit, bite a bit, but they just want the heart. This is just hunger, pure and simple. Whatever it was didn’t discriminate in what it was eating, you know? Just went for it.”

“Any noticeable teeth marks?”

Dean poked around more. “Huh, yep,” he muttered. “Way to blunt to be any kind of nasty we know. Almost looks…” Dean glanced up. His face went green. “Almost looks human.”

Sam swallowed back bitter bile. Bobby would never have let a rougarou, even a baby one, onto his property, let alone into his house.

There was only one answer.

“Bobby,” Sam gasped, almost losing what little he ate on the road. “We gotta … we gotta find him, Dean. We gotta fix this.”

Dean straightened, face still pale and eyes dull. “Yeah,” he whispered.

They swept the house. Found nothing but bloody footprints and handprints. Every so often, they’d come across some unidentifiable chunk of meat. Dean tried to joke, face pale: “Eating on the go. That’s our Bobby. Saving time, even when he’s half out of his wits.”

Sam glared, but subsided. He knew Dean’s coping mechanisms. (This was just one of the more offensive ones.)

Having swept the house and found nothing to say Bobby was hiding inside, they moved outside.  They moved between the stacks, feet silent, guns at the ready. A wet ripping sound caught Sam’s attention, and he pulled on Dean’s shirttail. Dean half turned, and Sam cocked his head toward the sound, tapping his ear.

Dean froze, listening, and heard it too. He nodded and they moved in sync toward the noise. As they approached, the wet ripping sound stopped, replaced with a grisly wet smacking. Dean made a face. Sam glared back, but the heat wasn’t in it. He didn’t want to listen to this either.

They rounded the rear bumpers of a five-tall stack of crushed cars to find Bobby, coated in spatters of bright crimson blood, trucker hat gone. He crouched over some unmoving shape on the ground. It was liberally coated in blood as well, still shiny in its freshness. Brown and black patches of fur peeked through the mess.

Rumsfeld. Looked like the Rottweiler couldn’t fight his beloved owner in the end.

Sam’s horrified contemplation of the scene was halted when Dean’s gun barked, one-two-three. A bloody hole opened in Bobby’s back, centered over the heart. Another opened in the back of his head. The last severed his spine, at the base of the skull. One of the three did the trick. Bobby fell forward, still.

Both brothers stood there for a long time. Dean broke the trance, whispering, “Fuck.” His voice wavered and broke. Sam knew that if he looked, he’d see his brother crying.

He didn’t need to see. Tears dripped down his face, too. Looked like Bobby wasn’t as invincible as they’d thought.

He turned back to Bobby’s house, already trying to remember where Bobby kept his spare sheets. They’d need a shroud. And wood. Lots of wood. Dean, picking up on his thoughts, followed. His eyes were still hollow, puffy around the edges. His breath hitched, just a bit.

-*-*-*-

They burned Bobby as the sun went down, and stayed, guns in hand, to watch the pyre burn to the ground. They’d give Bobby that.

Neither one said much of anything. Sam wanted to say some kind of eulogy, some thank you. But Dean’s hiccupped “Rest in peace, you cantankerous son of a bitch” pretty much covered anything he would’ve said.

When the pyre was nothing more than ashes and charcoal, and the moon was rising, the brothers turned back to Bobby’s house and loaded up every book they could find that could possibly be useful. They locked the doors, locked the windows, and warded the house with every ward they knew.

Then they drove away, the darkened salvage yard fading into their rearview.

The silence hung even heavier driving back east.

-*-*-*-

Sam dozed as Dean drove, trusting his brother to get them to a motel where he could actually stretch out. Mostly.

Instead, Dean jerked the wheel to the right and swung the Impala onto a dirt track. Sam whacked his head against the window and cursed, “Ow! Dammit, Dean, what the hell?”

Dean didn’t answer, just pushed the Impala faster and faster along the rutted road. Sam could hear the undercarriage creaking and rocks and clods of mud hitting the skid plate they’d installed years ago.

“Dean?” he ventured, “What happened to the motel?”

Dean’s only answer was to hit the brakes so hard a cloud of grayish brown dust enveloped the car, throwing Sam forward into the dash. He almost cursed Dean out again, but Dean was already out of the car and opening the trunk.

Sam got out and looked around, getting a foreboding feeling. The road the Impala sat on crossed another dirt track, little more than a trail of mud with two ruts dug into it. The moon shone eerily on the trees around them, white bark shining. Dean came back from the trunk of the car, holding a box, and Sam grabbed his arm.

“Dean! What the fuck! We are not summoning a crossroads demon, okay? Bobby’s gone. It sucks. I know. But this won’t fix anything. Bobby’s been _burned_ , Dean; there’s nothing for him to come back to. If you try to bring him back now, you’ll just force him to be a ghost. And you _know_ what happens to ghosts, because we fucking fix it. So you’d better turn your ass around and get in the damn car.”

Dean whirled around, throwing off Sam’s hand in the process. “Dammit, Sam, I’m not going to bring Bobby back, okay? I _know_ we burned him because I was there! There’s no need to _fucking_ remind me that Bobby’s … that Bobby’s dead, okay? I get it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to know _why_. What these demon bitches get from doing this. Why the world’s falling apart. I figure, a little holy water, a little salt, and whatever crossroads bitch pops up will spill, and then we know what to do to _stop_ this clusterfuck.”

Sam sighed, seeing the logic. “Okay, then. Fine. Summon the damn demon. I’ll get the spraypaint and put down a devil’s trap.”

Dean grunted agreement, already digging a hole in the middle of the crossroads with a small hand trowel. Sam hurried to paint the trap, getting it done just as the stench of sulfur wafted on the breeze.

He stood by Dean, who held a flask of holy water. They waited.

They kept waiting.

Nothing appeared.

After fifteen minutes, Dean slumped, muttering, “Fuck. What the hell. Where is this bitch?”

Sam looked around and sniffed the air. The whiff of sulfur had faded as quickly as it had come, and now nothing seemed out of the ordinary. “Maybe the demon’s not coming?”

“Can they do that? I thought this was like a required deal!”

Sam scratched his head. “I don’t know. That’s what I thought, but I think it’s pretty obvious that the demon’s not coming.”

Dean sighed. “Well, something’s fishy. First some factory blows up and the world goes to shit. Then the crossroads demon’s a no-show?”

Sam nodded, thinking. “Maybe we should check this out. It may not be connected, but you never know.”

“Exactly, Sammy. Exactly.”

-*-*-*-

They spent the next twelve hours driving again, trying to get ahead of the Wilds they were starting to spot. Finally, they sat in another hotel room, this one in Ohio, just across the border from Indiana. Dean dropped off to sleep immediately, but Sam flipped open his laptop, taking advantage of his mobile broadband USB stick to get Internet access. He searched out the blog of one of the scientists researching the Gemini virus, and found a new entry.

_We’ve made a few breakthroughs today, all of them connected. It’s been one crazy ride as we try to understand this virus that is still spreading towards our laboratory. So, as I’m sure you readers want to know what we found, here’s my official report:_

_“The Gemini virus, as it is popularly termed, is a retrovirus, transmitted through the air and through water sources. It’s actually quite fascinating; as a retrovirus, the viral genome inserts itself into the host’s genome at a set point. This point can vary. For some, the virus attaches at what has now been termed the A-site; this attachment switches on genes to increase muscle strength and density, as well as adding onto the height of the individual by switching on genes for growth. Infected-A, or ‘Neos,’ as they’ve been termed, also lose activity in genes which improve endurance._

_“On the other hand, in Infected-B individuals, in which the virus attaches at a B-site, the effect is the opposite; these ‘Oncers,’ as they’re called, stop storing fat almost entirely, maintaining just enough to continue life, and also stop building muscle. However, the “lost” muscle isn’t lost; it is simply more toned, due to endurance genes being switched into overdrive in Infected-B individuals._

_“Infected-C individuals receive no true benefits, or none that they retain the consciousness to take advantage of. The virus targets C-sites, which exist only in the frontal lobe and in muscle and skeletal tissue. In brain tissue, insertion of the viral genome triggers apoptosis, cell death, of frontal lobe neurons; the individual is left without any higher cognitive function, leaving them to roam as mindless predators. As if to increase the individual’s possibility of success, the Infected-C individual also gains muscle mass and density, as in the Neo. Infected-C individuals are known simply as Wilds.”_

_Now here’s a piece of advice from a scientist: Avoid Wilds at all costs. No one, Neo or Oncer, can best a pack of Wilds in a fight._

_Stay safe, dear readers._

Sam stared at the screen. Well, that explained why picking up Dean at that Indiana motel felt like lifting a person half Dean’s weight. He’d gotten stronger and, more than likely, Dean had gotten slimmer. He’d seen his brother having trouble lugging as many heavy leather-bound books as he normally would back at … back at Bobby’s. He’d just dismissed it as stress, or lethargy from driving with so little sleep.

Maybe it was more than that. Because though Dean hadn’t been able to carry as much, Sam had picked up his slack with ease.

Maybe they hadn’t escaped Oregon as unscathed as they thought they had. Maybe they just avoided going insane.


	2. Part II

Dean stared at the ceiling, trying his best not to look at his own body. His _emaciated_ body. He hadn’t been this skinny since high school. He felt like some awkward kid again, always having to ask someone for help.

He knew it was real. He could feel the difference in his ability to shift heavy doors and dig graves. He could work just as long as before, but he could do maybe half the actual work.

It sucked.

And Sam was walking around looking oblivious to the fact that his strength had suddenly shot through the roof. Seriously. Things they used to do together, Sam could do on his own now.

Dean felt unnecessary.

It really sucked ass.

He turned onto his stomach and tried to ignore the different way his body lay without the slight pudge he’d been working on. It felt wrong, like his own body had betrayed him.

He punched his pillow into submission and lay back down. He dropped into sleep soon after, face still scrunched into discomfort, one arm making up the difference under his stomach.

-*-*-*-

Sam woke to the static of the TV. Dean held the remote, eyes shadowed with light bags speaking of his lack of sleep. He flicked through the channels, coming up with nothing every time. Even the porn channel was just snow.

“Dean, give it up,” Sam sighed. “This part of the country’s been abandoned, pretty much. Everyone’s running scared.”

Dean glanced up from his perusal of the television static. “I know, Sam. But I figure, someone has to have stayed. Somewhere.”

Dean pressed another button on the remote and was rewarded with a pre-recorded message: _"To_ _whomever is watching this message, I want to warn you of your imminent danger. You are within the radius of the Gemini virus outbreak, and all of the surrounding area has been evacuated by order of the American government. Wilds have more than likely overrun the area, and you are nothing more than food to them. No matter whether the Wild appears to be someone you know; they will not listen to your pleas. They will not recognize you. They will attack you._ _"_

Dean flicked the channel, finding more snow and static. “Well,” Dean muttered, “That’s why we could jimmy the door to this room without some motel owner busting our asses.”

“Yep,” Sam answered, “I figured something like this would happen. When in doubt, get as many people away as possible and warn the rest.”

Dean humphed, “It’d be a great plan, if the virus-thing wasn’t going to follow them.”

Sam hummed in agreement, already imagining the mass panic enveloping the western hemisphere. Soon, he figured, from what he’d seen on the news websites when he could get access to satellite internet, the virus would hit the Caribbean islands, and all hell would break loose. It was probably already halfway down the South American coast, following the current.

“Hey Dean,” Sam asked offhand, “You noticed anything weird about your body lately?”

Dean clammed up, and Sam’s attention was piqued. “Nope,” Dean said, voice falsely light, eyes daring Sam to continue that line of questioning.

Sam dared. “You sure? No sudden gain in muscle mass? Or loss of body fat? Because I’m telling you, man, the virus works in three ways, from what I’ve seen. You bulk up, you slim down, or you go nuts. You haven’t gone nuts, so…”

Dean snapped, “Leave it, Sam. I can still hunt, okay?”

“So it’s option number two. Okay then.”

Dean glared. “Like you’ve got room to talk, Schwarzenegger. You’ve gained all sorts of mass over there.”

“I know,” Sam nodded. “But I also can’t work as long. I can feel it. I get tired too easily, lose my stamina. And it’s not something I did. This is all the virus’ effects, Dean. I got type A, so I gained muscle mass and lost endurance. Since you’re not bragging about bulking up, I’d guess that you got type B.”

“You make it sound like some kind of STD, Sammy,” Dean tried to quip. Sam’s annoyed face cut through the attempted snark.

“Shut it, Dean. This is real, and it won’t go away, like that one scientist said. You’ve changed physiologically, genetically, and that’s not something some laps and pushups can fix.”

Dean jerked himself up from the bed, pacing. “Sam, you don’t get it. All my damn life I’ve had to count on my own strength to get me out of shit; Dad helped sometimes, you helped more, but most of the time I was flying solo, and I needed to be in peak condition. Then this fucking virus comes along and I lose half my muscle mass! I lose so much weight I can’t _sleep_ at night because it feels too damn different. Okay?

“So don’t go preaching that I should up and accept this. You got more strength; you don’t get to tell me to accept my lot just because you have it good.” Dean threw up his hands as if to punctuate his little speech and threw himself into the hard kitchenette chair, arms crossed across his chest.

Sam gusted out a breath. “Look, Dean. I see where you’re coming from. I do. But you have to realize that you _can’t_ change it. You _have_ to accept it, okay? It’s just our lives now. This won’t kill you. I swear.”

Dean growled, “Whatever. I’m going to go get some pie from that convenience store down the street. It had lights on in the window.”

“Take a gun, okay? No telling what’s out there.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean muttered, stuffing his Colt into his waistband as he went by. “Don’t wait up.”

Sam stared at his brother’s retreating back until the door slammed behind him. Then he sat down to keep researching this virus.

His hands paused over the keyboard, remembering the crossroads. Could the virus have something to do with the demons’ vanishing act?

He revised his search terms. He scanned the internet for demon signs, marking down the places he found news of them on a notepad. They’d have to do some driving to figure out what was up, but maybe this could help.

-*-*-*-

Sam was asleep over his computer when Dean walked back into the motel room. He huffed a thankful sigh. He didn’t want Sam to see his bruised knuckles, or the ever-growing black eye he was sporting. He dropped his hard-won pie on the motel table and collapsed back onto the bed he’d claimed as his.

The convenience store owner’s disgusted face floated through his mind’s eye. He growled, rubbing at his uninjured eye roughly. What right did that asshole have to look down on him? Just because he had more muscle mass than Dean didn’t mean squat. Dean proved that summarily with a knee to the man’s family jewels, and an elbow to the nose.

But the words the other had hissed at him as the first punch was thrown still shook him. _“Get out of this place, Oncer scum. I won’t be having weaklings like you tainting my establishment.”_

What the hell was a Oncer anyway? And why did it condemn him?

He levered himself upright, mindful of what felt like one giant bruise growing just under his ribcage. The owner couldn’t throw a punch, but those that connected had enough force to do some major damage, even without a bit of technique. He nearly groaned trying to stand, and dreaded the walk to the outdoor ice machine. He needed to get some ice on his eye before it puffed up more than it already had, and maybe some on his ribs, too.

His shuffling, or maybe some quiet noise of discomfort, woke Sam. Dean muttered, “Shit,” as Sam pushed himself upright, one hand casting to his right, clasping the gun lying there.

“Dean? What’s the matter?” Sam asked, his eyes trying to pick out detail in the dark room. “Why are you limping?”

Dean huffed, “It’s nothing, Sammy. I took care of it, okay? I’m not a fucking _weakling_ , yeah?”

Sam shook his head, either to shake the fuzz out of his head or to agree with Dean’s statement; Dean didn’t know. He let go of his gun, eyes focusing in the gloom. “Dean?” he asked slowly, “Who gave you a black eye?”

Dean hissed, “It’s _nothing_ , Sam. Leave it. It’s handled.”

“Right,” Sam grumped, “It’s _handled_. You only have, what, bruised knuckles, a black eye, possible cracked ribs, and what could be a sprained ankle, huh. It’s _all_ handled. No trouble at all.”

Dean almost slumped until his ribs protested loudly. (Sam had always been better at diagnosis than Dean. He had a feeling, now that Sam had said it, that at least one rib _was_ cracked. At least nothing was broken.) “C’mon, Sam,” he coaxed, face twisting, “Can’t you just drop it? I took care of it. He won’t be saying the shit he said to me to anyone else.”

He almost regretted saying that much, because Sam zeroed in on it, standing and walking over to inspect Dean as he pointedly asked, “What did he say, Dean?”

Dean tried to evade. “Just some shit about me, Sammy. You know how I get when people insult this.” He tried to run his hands over his chest, but a wince of pain as his arm lifted stopped that.

Sam shook his head. “No. That’s not it. You didn’t start this fight, because you took way too much damage. He started this. Why?”

Dean backtracked. “Sam, it’s _nothing_ you need to worry about. I swear.”

“Dean, _tell me_.” Sam’s eyes focused on his own, even in the darkness of the room, and Dean would feel the weight of the gaze.

He folded, muttering, “Fine. Whatever. Not like it’s a long fucking story or anything.

“I was just trying to get some pie from a place down the street a ways. It had its lights on, so someone was home. So I walk in, looking around for some damn pie – I just wanted some pie! – and the fucking clerk just attacks me.”

Sam interjected, “ _What?_ Just up and punched you?”

Dean shrugged, eyes sheepish, just a bit. “Naw, not physically. But he stood behind that cash register and spat every foul thing under the goddamn sun at my back. Called me a weakling, called me a Oncer, said I should get my scrawny ass out the door.” Dean scoffed, looking up, “It’s not like he was getting any other damn customers, but fuck that, right? And what the fuck is a Oncer anyway?”

Sam shrugged in return.

“Yeah, exactly. Well, I told him I just wanted some damn pie. I dunno if it was my language or what – if it was he was a fucking hypocrite – but he blew his top in a big way. His face went as red as a tomato, you know?”

Sam snorted. “I can imagine the type, yeah.”

Dean chuckled, but quieted. “He said something about me being too damn stupid to live. Then he started to say something about how I should just go find a Wild and die, and I was done with his ass. I just wanted my motherfucking pie.”

“You and your pie,” Sam chuckled. “We should get a marriage license.”

“Yeah, yeah, shut it, bitch,” Dean huffed, “So, anyway, I ignored him and his annoying-ass ranting. I guess he didn’t take too kindly to that, ‘cause he came out from behind that counter. He was fucking _enormous_ , Sammy. He had at least a head of height on me, and enough muscle to make me think his mother had a seriously liking for a certain ranch animal.”

Sam flattened his mouth, trying not to laugh as he scolded, “ _Dean_.”

Dean caught the choked-off snort, though, and he pointed, crying, “Hah! Made you laugh.” He sobered, continuing, “No, but seriously. I’m there in this goddamn _convenience store_ , racks of food everywhere, and I’m facing this fucking giant, who looks like he’s about to explode, kick my ass, or do both at the same time.” Dean shook his head. “I guess he thought I was too stupid to get the message, ‘cause he started forward at me, yelling about ‘beating the damn message into my Oncer ass’ or something.”

Dean paused. Sam waved his hands, asking, “And?”

“That’s where the fun stuff starts,” Dean commented, eyes staring everywhere but at Sam. “He did good on his word, got in a few good hits. Went for the face first – which fucking _hurt_ by the way – but he had no technique to back it up. Sure, the sheer strength he put behind the hit put me on my ass, but it didn’t knock me out cold. So I was there on the damn tile, trying to get past the fucking church bells in my skull, and he starts kicking me in the gut.”

Sam felt his shoulders tense; he wanted to go find the asshole and–

Dean rested a hand on the knotted muscle. “Chill, dude. Story’s not done. He got his, okay? I’m not _that_ fucking weak that I let him turn me into his own punching bag without getting a few good hits in back, right?”

“Yeah,” Sam sighed, trying to relax. “I know. It’s just …”

“Don’t be getting sappy, Sammy,” Dean joked. “Lemme finish. _Anyway_ , I was choking on my own spit, but I wanted to get up and _show_ this asshole why fucking with me was such bad idea. Right after that wonderful thought crossed my mind, that same asshole stepped on my fucking _foot_ , and I felt something twist like it fucking shouldn’t. I guess he thought that broke me or something, because he backed off after one more kick to my solar plexus.”

Dean glanced over, eyes bright with something like excitement, and Sam asked, “Well? What happened, dammit? Don’t leave me in suspense.”

“Well, when he backed off, I got up and made to run, but right as that smarmy, bigoted ass opened his mouth, I spun and put my knee where the sun doesn’t shine, then put my elbow through his nose. His eyes went all wide, like he didn’t expect me to fight back.”

Sam interjected, scoffing, “Idiot.”

Dean grinned, huffing, “You tell ‘im. Anyway, he recovered pretty fast, all things considered, and tried to hook my legs from where he’d curled up on that tile – and lemme tell you: that sight was awesome, seeing him where I’d just been – so I got the hell out of there.”

Sam glanced over, asking, “And the pie?”

“I nicked it.” Dean grinned, shark-wide.

“Of course you did,” Sam chuckled. “Anyway,” he huffed, “That’s over with.”

Dean nodded. “Damn right. And I got my pie.”

“Enough about the pie, Dean. Really.” Sam turned to see Dean pouting, eyes comically wide. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Anyway, while you were out, I was researching the whole crossroads demon thing. You know, when it didn’t show up?”

Dean’s eyes darkened, and Sam couldn’t help but remember the mania that had gripped Dean after Bobby – after they burned Bobby. “I remember,” Dean muttered. “And? You get anything before you fell asleep on your keyboard.”

Sam huffed, “Shut up, jerk. I was fucking exhausted. _Before_ I took a nap, I found something really interesting.”

“What?” Dean asked, “Now who’s leaving who in suspense?”

Sam chuckled, “Yeah, yeah.” His face went serious, and Dean started to pay attention. “So get this: what if the virus was somehow keeping the demons from getting back to hell? I went looking for signs, reports of mutilations and the like, right? And there’s _nothing_ on the east coast. Not even a stray lightning storm. But the west coast is lighting up like nobody’s business. What if there’s a connection?”

Dean looked up, glad to have a _hunt_ to focus on, to get his mind off of his changing body. “You think there is, Sammy?”

Sam nodded. “It’s possible, Dean. The virus alters Wilds’ brain structure, the chemical and physical structure. Maybe something about those changes traps demon in their meatsuits if the suits go Wild. Maybe this could lead us to Yellow-Eyes.”

“You think so?” Dean asked, face brightening slightly at the prospect of killing the bastard that killed his mom, killed his father.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “In fact, I found this huge lightning storm that’s just hovering over southern Cali right now. It hasn’t moved in a while now, not even when the high winds passed through. I have a feeling that’s where Yellow-Eyes was when the virus hit Cali. Now he’s stuck there.”

Dean smiled grimly. “We might just have a chance, huh, Sammy?”

“Yeah, we do,” Sam replied, lips parted in a mockery of a smile that bared his teeth. “We can end this shit, once and for all.”

-*-*-*-

After that, Sam and Dean headed southwest, but not _due_ southwest. They had an unspoken agreement. Any town they went through, they’d find what Wilds they could and take them out. Maybe take out some demons in the process.

It turned out, headshots didn’t kill Wilds. Sam said something about that part of the brain being mush, but Dean honestly didn’t need the reason; he just needed the fact: hit the heart, or hit the brainstem. Nothing else would put the bastards down.

Their first hunt went downhill fast. They drove into a podunk town in Nebraska, and Dean cut the engine. Sam had discovered that Wilds’ senses were heightened, almost like a werewolf’s. Any loud sound would announce their presence for a mile radius at least.

They stepped out of the car, sawed-offs already in their hands, handguns tucked into their waistbands, and closed the doors as quietly as they were able. Sam pointed down the street, where a lone figure stumbled down the median. Dean raised his shotgun, waiting for the Wild to get in range. Sam covered his six, eyes watching for any movement.

Dean shot the Wild as it shambled ever closer, eyes unfocused and blood running from the corner of its mouth; it fell and didn’t move again. The roar of the shotgun was echoed by a cacophony of growls from all around them. Dean turned to Sam, who pointed him down the street.

Dean moved forward, trying to keep Sam, who’d moved in the opposite direction, in his sight. Just as Sam ducked around a corner, a growl from his left had Dean whirling, raising his shotgun a squeezing off his second shot. The Wild fell, a hole in its chest leaking blood sluggishly, only to reveal five more behind it. Dean cursed and pulled out his handgun one-handed.

He squeezed off one-two-three shots before backing away from the advancing group, taking out the frontrunners. The other two reacted to their fallen companions by falling on them and ripping into the dead bodies. Dean almost gagged, but shot them as well. He moved on after quickly reloading his shotgun and replacing the clip of his handgun.

As he moved through the city streets, he took out dozens of Wilds. Each time he found a group, he shot the front few, and then killed the rest as they bent to feed on the easy buffet. The solitary ones were more difficult, especially if they were feeling springy – the damn things were _fast_ when they wanted to be.

Running out of shotgun ammo and long out of clips for his Colt, Dean turned back to the Impala, hoping he wouldn’t find any more Wilds who had descended on the feast he’d left behind.

He neither saw nor heard anything until he was almost back to the car. Then Wilds’ loud snarls overwhelmed him, along with the pounding of a very familiar set of feet. “Dammit, Sammy,” he gasped, as broke into a sprint himself.

He passed the Impala, didn’t even think about it. He had to find Sam.

He found him and cursed again. Sam was crouched behind a wrought-iron fence, which offered almost no protection against the mob of Wilds approaching. Some broke into a kind of shambling run when they caught sight of Dean. He cursed again, sprinting to his little brother’s side, only to find him hunched over his own vomit, gasping for breath.

“C’mon, Sammy,” he urged, “You gotta get up. C’mon. They’re getting closer, and I don’t have the ammo to take on a crowd like this. What the hell’d you do, stumble into a nest of the fuckers?”

Sam wheezed, “Big group … got them all … rest showed … after … gunshots.”

“Right, okay,” Dean hummed, pulling at Sam’s arm. “Sam, this isn’t the time to take a breather. I don’t have the strength to move your heavy ass anymore, you hear me? And before you say some shit, I’m not leaving you. Get your ass off the ground. Get _up_ , Sam!”

Sam shook his head. “Can’t, Dean. Ran too hard. Legs like jelly.”

Dean cussed and grabbed Sam’s gun off of the ground. “You got ammo?” Sam nodded and handed up his two spare clips. “Well shit,” Dean muttered, looking at the crowd of Wilds approaching. “I guess that will have to do. Where’s your damn shotgun, anyway.”

Sam panted, “Had to drop it. Too heavy,” as Dean began to pick off the running Wilds. The rest paused in their approach to tear into the dead Wilds, and Dean breathed a sigh of relief. That might distract them long enough to get Sammy out of there.

“C’mon, Sam,” he hushed, “I know you’re beat. I know. But you listen to me. I’ll do my damn best to support you, but I don’t have the muscle mass I used to. You need to bear some of your weight, Sasquatch. C’mon now. Up you go.” He hauled his little brother upright and Sam almost went back down, bringing Dean down with him. Dean nearly groaned, but held it back and just huffed instead. “That’s it, Sam. Now, one foot in front of the other. Let’s get our asses out of this town.”

Sam stumbled every other step, but they managed to coordinate enough that they never went to the ground. Dean struggled under Sam’s weight, but bore it.  
Maybe this would help build some of his lost mass back up.

By the time they’d stumbled back to the Impala, Sam was wheezing again and almost going over with every shift in his center of balance. Dean had shot at least five more Wilds on the way, thanking whatever deity was out there that no more had shown up.

He shoved Sam into the Impala, taking care to keep the lug’s head away from the frame of the car. “Okay, Sammy,” he hushed, “Just sit tight. I’ll get us out of here.” He almost said, “And then you and I are having a long talk,” but refrained. Sam probably wouldn’t even hear half of it.

Dean started the car, and the rumble drew a few Wilds from the side streets. He didn’t pay any mind to them, gunning the engine and getting the hell out of town.

He was pretty sure he imagined Sam’s quiet “Sorry,” because when he turned to look, Sam was asleep, eyes scrunched up tight.

He sighed and focused on the road. He needed to find a motel with locking doors and working water. Another human manning the desk was unnecessary.

-*-*-*-

Sam woke up to an all-encompassing pain deep in his muscles. “Fuck,” he groaned. Even moving his head hurt.

“Sammy?” he heard, “You alright?”

Sam shook his head slightly and moaned again. “No,” he hissed, “Everything hurts.”

Dean muttered, “Well, shit,” under his breath, and Sam heard him approach. “Okay, listen,” he heard, “I’m going to need your help in a few minutes. I’m about to go run you an ice bath, see if I can’t get some of that muscle pain down. Then you’ll need to get out, so I can see how hot this motel’s hot water actually is.”

Sam nodded slightly in agreement. Dean huffed, and Sam could almost see his shaky smile as he quipped, “I’m not giving you a full-body massage, princess.” Sam huffed a laugh in return and fell silent.

Dean, silent as well, walked toward what Sam assumed was the bathroom. Sam heard the water start, a great shuddering moan echoing through the pipes. He grimaced. This was going to suck, but he knew it would help, too.

He fell asleep before Dean must have gone out to grab ice from the machine, because he startled awake when the door closed behind Dean, full ice bucket in hand. Dean smirked at him, and Sam let his eyes fall shut. He couldn't even grimace at his brother; everything hurt too much.

Soon afterward, Dean’s steps returned, and Sam cracked open his eyes. Dean offered both of his hands, bracing his hips on the foot of the bed. “Okay, Sammy,” he coaxed, “Need to get you into the bath before it warms up, now.”

Sam tried to push himself upright and fell back with a loud groan. His back felt like it was on fire, and his legs were somehow even worse. Dean stepped forward. “I know it hurts, Sammy. But this will help. C’mon.”

Sam slowly levered himself upright, one hand grasping at Dean’s. Dean grimaced as Sam leaned all of his weight against him, pulling his uncooperative legs around to the edge of the bed. Sam released Dean then and tried to push himself up to standing, only to almost fall backwards. Dean jumped forward, catching Sam and groaning with his brother. “Shit, man,” he hissed, “You’re fucking _heavier_ than you were yesterday.”

Sam huffed and tried again, this time managing to get his feet under himself before almost toppling forward. Dean caught him again, arms protesting the rough treatment for the second day running, and began to lead him toward the bathroom. “You got it,” he assured Sam. “Almost there.”

They got to the bathroom and Dean pulled at Sam’s shirt. Sam slapped weakly at Dean’s hand, but Dean stopped him, saying, “This will work better if we don’t have to dry out your clothes, too, Sam. Work with me.”

Sam acquiesced quietly to the removal of his clothes, and allowed Dean to help him into the tub. He lowered himself into the water until only his head was above the water. (For once, the tub was built for someone of his stature. Sam felt like crying in joy.) It was _freezing_. It was _wonderful_. His sore muscles went numb in the cold, and Sam sighed in relief.

“Better?” Dean asked. He didn’t even wait for a response before saying, “I told you so.”

Sam huffed quietly, “Yeah, yeah. Yuk it up, jerk.”

Dean turned to his brother, “Don’t be that way, bitch.” He smiled and glanced at his watch. “Hey, I need to go find some food or something. Maybe someone stayed in this town. Be back in fifteen to get you out, promise.”

By his count, Dean returned in fourteen minutes, dropped something on the table, and opened the bathroom door. Sam opened his eyes, having closed them to better savor the numbness of his once-sore muscles.

Dean stepped forward, muttering, “Okay, Sammy, let’s get you out of there.” Sam managed to get to his feet under his own power, mostly due to the fact that he could barely feel his legs. Dean helped him step out of the tub and drained the water, which had been approaching lukewarm by that point. Dean knelt next to the tub while Sam sat on the toilet lid, boxers-covered ass planted on a towel. Dean adjusted the temperature until he was satisfied and steam rose from the water.

He lifted Sam back into the tub, realizing that Sam’s legs would’ve locked up from sitting still. “Okay, here we go,” he muttered. When Sam was situated, Dean stood and leaned back against the wall.

“Now, Sam,” he began, “Don’t you dare fall asleep. We need to talk.”

Sam tried to interject, but Dean stampeded over him, asking in a deadly-soft voice, “So, you want to tell me why I found you so exhausted you _puked_ yesterday?”

Sam sighed, “Dean, I know I screwed up, okay? I’m not used to my new biology.”

Dean snapped, “Exactly! You told me, you _told_ me, that your endurance was way down! So fucking _act_ like it, yeah? Doing shit like that will get you killed, Sammy! Hell, you almost _were_ Wild food if I hadn’t been there to save your ass.”

Sam laid back further in the water. “I know, Dean,” he muttered, rebellious. “I get it. I just forgot, okay?”

Dean raised his voice. “Well, you’re the fucking genius, Sammy! What reason do you really have for _forgetting_ the damn side effects?”

Sam fidgeted, realizing feeling was returning to his legs. “It was a heat-of-the-moment thing, Dean. I didn’t think about the fact that my body’d changed. I just reacted. I’m not _used_ to it yet.”

Dean sneered, “Oh, you’re not _used_ to it. Well, I was the one who had to get _used_ to my damn body real damn fast when you went down. I practically had to carry your ass to the car, remember? I could barely do it before; now you’ve gained at least fifteen pounds and I _can’t_ , Sam. The _only_ reason you’re okay is that those damn Wilds are more interested in easy food than in chasing down a meal. If they’d been willing to chase us, we both would’ve been done for.”

Sam hunched his head. “I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know.” He kicked a foot against the wall. “Just, don’t do it again. Fucking scared me, Sammy.” He turned and walked out of the bathroom, leaving Sam to feel like shit in solitude.

-*-*-*-

For the next couple of days, they stayed in that same motel while Sam healed up. Dean grumbled and bitched about it, but he also brought Sam still-chilled salads from somewhere, so he couldn’t have been _too_ mad.

Once he was able to stand without wincing, they got back on the road. Dean tried to avoid the small towns; Wilds congregated there. People had already started to trickle back into the outskirts of the big cities, packing as much weaponry as they could. The National Guard, apparently, was also trying to reclaim certain key locales.

Sam disregarded that news and pointed Dean toward the next town. They had to buy (or siphon) some more gas.

Before they made it to the town, the car passed a huge barn, dilapidated and dark. Sam noted movement within and motioned for Dean to pull over, further on.

“What is it?” Dean asked.

Sam muttered, “I saw something in that barn. You want to check it out?”

“Gotta get back on the horse sometime, I guess,” Dean huffed, climbing out of the car. They both grabbed a shotgun and handgun apiece. Dean offered Sam a machete, too, handle-first. “In case we get into close-quarters in there.”

Sam nodded and took the weapon. Who knew what they’d find. Could be one Wild, could be twenty. Sam prayed that it was only one, but he knew twenty was far more likely; from what they’d seen, Wilds ran in packs.

He followed Dean as Dean snuck through the undergrowth surrounding the abandoned barn. A soft growl from ahead, echoed by another, meant that the Wilds had smelled them. Sam cocked the handgun and pumped the shotgun.

They came out from the brush firing, and ran for the barn. Only two Wilds stood outside the barn; the rest seemed intelligent enough to hide within.

Dean entered the gloom first. Sam followed close behind, firing as quickly as he could. There were far more than twenty of the damn things, more along the lines of forty; they’d obviously found a few deer hiding in the barn and taken them as an easy feast. “Shit,” he muttered.

Dean grunted in agreement and moved forward. Sam made to follow, but a Wild stepped between them, dull eyes fixed on his throat. It was too close to use the gun; the bullet would have gone through-and-through and hit Dean. So he pulled out his machete as the Wild lurched forward and took off its head.

By the time he’d finished, Dean had disappeared into the gloom, only the flicker of muzzle fire showing where he was. Sam figured that Dean could handle himself, so he turned to the sound of growls behind him and raised his machete.

As they shot and slashed at the Wilds surrounding them, they stumbled or missed a shot occasionally. The structure of the barn, already weakened by decay, couldn’t take that much abuse. Sam heard a loud crunch, and noticed the whole structure around him shaking.

“Dean!” he yelled, “We need to clear out!” He thought he heard a shout of agreement, so he made for the only exit he could see.

A more frantic cry brought him up short. “Dean?” he called into the gloom.

He received no answer except a gunshot and another inarticulate yell. Sam ran back in. “Dean!”

He cast around, seeing immobile Wilds and pieces of fallen debris from the roof, knocked loose by gunshots. A crash to his left sent him running, and he almost froze when he found the source.

Dean was trapped under a beam that had apparently fallen from the ceiling. A few Wilds circled him, snarling. Dean already had multiple scratches on his left arm, which he couldn’t move because of the weight of the beam. What looked like a deep bite mark on his shoulder bled sluggishly. Sam answered the Wilds’ growls with a snarl of his own, drawing a bead with his handgun and taking out three of them. He decapitated the others, leaving their dead bodies to kneel at Dean’s side.

“Hey, hey, Dean, you with me?” he asked, eyes taking in every visible injury. A bite on his left shoulder, deep, at least four medium-depth scratches on his left upper arm, another bite on the meat of his left calf. A goose egg forming above his eye, blood trickling from his hairline. “C’mon, Dean, answer me, man.”

Dean huffed, eyes out of focus. “Hey … Sammy. Wood is heavy, huh?”

Sam closed his eyes, counted to three. “Okay, Dean. You might have a concussion. I’m going to get you out from under this beam, okay? You just sit still.”

Dean added his two cents as Sam lifted the wood. “I can’t do anything _but_ sit still, Sammy. I think I’m stuck.”

“Right,” Sam muttered, heaving the beam off to the side, ignoring the sickening crunch of flesh and bone crushing under its weight. “Anything broken?”

Dean nodded slowly. “My upper arm feels off.”

Sam huffed. “Okay. Let’s get you back to the car. I’ll patch you up there, hey? Just need to get you to the car.”

Dean acquiesced with a meek “Okay, Sammy,” and allowed Sam to lift him into his arms.

Once they were out of the dark barn, Sam could see Dean’s wounds better, and he only worried more. The bite wounds still bled; they would definitely need stitches. The scratches had stopped bleeding, but they’d need some serious cleaning; who knew what a Wild had under its fingernails. (Sam didn’t want to know.) Dean’s arm was already swelling and bruising, although it wasn’t bent awkwardly, so a hospital visit might not be required. (Thank God for that; it's not like doctors and nurses stuck around any more than motel owners or convenience store clerks did.) The cut on Dean’s head had finally stopped bleeding, but his gaze was unfocused in a way that signaled a concussion.

Sam catalogued this as he walked back to the Impala. When he made it back, he set Dean carefully on the backseat and pulled the med-kit out of the trunk.

As he stitched, disinfected, and wiped away blood, Dean stared into the distance, checking in only long enough to groan when a particular cut was sensitive.  
Finally, Sam had treated all of the superficial wounds, so he turned to Dean’s left arm. It had swollen grotesquely from the elbow up and turned purple and blue. Sam groaned. This wasn’t going to be pretty, no matter how he did it.

“Okay, Dean,” he soothed. “I need you to sit up and turn towards the front, okay? I’m going to reset your arm now.” Dean nodded, sitting up with a grimace and turning, moving gingerly to not pull at the new stitches. “On three, okay?” Dean grimaced but nodded. Sam found the broken edges and got ready to shove them back into alignment. “Okay. One–”

Dean screamed through clenched teeth as the bone scraped against itself. Sam stepped away, watching for any signs of problems. Dean just lay on the seat, eyes clenched, so Sam stepped back forward. “I need to put you in a sling,” he soothed. “Just one more second, okay? Just hold your arm just like that.”

Sam pulled out the old shirt they’d used as a sling since John was still alive, and before. He wrapped it around Dean’s arm and neck, tightening it just enough that Dean was immobile. He pulled the seatbelt across Dean’s lap, strapping him in. “I’ll drive, okay? You just sit here and try to sleep it off. I’ll give you some pain meds once I find a motel where you can crash.”

Sam saw Dean grimace in the rearview mirror as the Impala rumbled to life. He drove extremely carefully after that, to try and keep from jarring Dean’s arm.

An hour later, he found a motel and picked the lock of the nearest room, practically carrying Dean inside. He let Dean lay down on the bed and retrieved the strongest pain meds they had from the med-kit, along with a water bottle from the trunk.

Dean looked at the water bottle, betrayal written on his face. “Dean,” Sam asserted, “I’m not letting you drink whiskey and take this. Whiskey and Advil, sure. But mixing alcohol and this stuff could kill you.” Dean rolled his eyes but accepted the pill on his tongue, and took a pull at the water bottle Sam offered. He lay back, eyes closing. “Thanks,” he whispered.

Sam sat on the other bed. “No problem, big brother,” he replied.

He stared at the obvious injuries all over Dean’s body, and resolved to never let Dean out of his sight on a hunt again. They couldn’t afford to be beaten up like this every time.

-*-*-*-

Dean was laid up for months waiting for his arm to heal. He had nothing to do. Sam wouldn’t even let him walk around for the first month or so, because he might “jostle his arm.” Dean called bullshit, but Sam had the puppy-dog eyes on his side, so Dean folded reluctantly.

He got his revenge by playing the satellite news station he’d found at maximum volume.

_“Good afternoon to all our listeners today. This is Frank Behaj, reporting from Washington DC. So far, the National Guard and Army Reserves have been successful in their goal to keep the government in business and unaffected by the Wild crisis._

_“A few members of Congress did turn, and were taken care of summarily by the new bodyguards installed at each Congressperson’s side. We here in the network and all of Washington mourn for the loss of their intellects, and Congress has resolved to push forward to discover a solution to what is now becoming a permanent shift in world dynamics._

_“Thus far, very few Congresspersons have shown Oncer traits, and as such a movement has been put forward in both the House and the Senate. The movement resolves to remove Oncers from the government; the reasoning put forth cites studies published within the past week that show a decreased intelligence and creativity in Oncers as compared to Neos, and an increased proclivity to make decisions biased extremely by emotional responses. Due to these and other factors, many Congresspersons feel that Oncers are not suited to make far-reaching decisions regarding policy and legislation, and as such should be barred from holding office._

_“This movement has already passed committee easily in both houses, according to our correspondents, and with no changes; this is practically unheard of. The vote is scheduled for this coming Friday, two days from today, and no one has any doubt as to the outcome. Right now, the passage of this bill is simply a formality. Already, Oncer Congresspersons are resigning from office, to escape their forcible removal at the hands of the legislation._

_“Of course, many citizens are protesting against this legislation; however, with limited access to DC and limited access to the Internet, many protests remain localized and as such have no effect on their representative’s vote.”_

The reporter on the screen looked at his own arm, and held them up, revealing the excessive toning and slimness characteristic of a Oncer.

_“I hate to admit it, folks, but it looks like even I may be out of a job soon.”_

Dean punched the “off” button on the remote, fuming. Sam eyed him warily, like he was about to blow.

Dean felt like he was about to explode. Who did those talking heads think they were, deciding something like that? _Denying_ people like him, who didn’t even have a damn _choice_ , the ability to affect how their own country was run? What was next? Oncer voting restrictions? Separate Oncer areas and cities? Oncer _slaves_?

Dean snorted, face screwing up in distaste. Sam nodded, muttering, “It’s like a reverse Civil Rights Movement, huh?”

Dean turned to his brother. “You mean you _knew_?”

“Well, Dean, it’s not like it was a covert decision. This was plastered all over news sites, all over what’s left of _social media_ for Christ’s sake. This has been ready to go down practically since the damn idiots in Congress figured out which side the majority fell on in the genetic lottery.”

Dean grumbled, “Well, if more’d been Oncers, they probably would’ve said some shit about Neos not having the _endurance_ to work long days or the _mental acuity_ to form logical decisions. How the hell do you test creativity, anyway? I’m fucking creative.”

“That’s the thing, Dean. I’d be willing to bet the Impala that that study was funded by some Neo Congress members. And that it was _tailored_ to show exactly those results. After all,” Sam chuckled darkly, “money talks.”

Dean huffed. “Well, fuck them. It’s not like we listened to them anyway, right?”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think you get it, Dean. Remember that cashier, the one that called you a ‘weakling?’” Dean mumbled an agreement. “Well, now he’s got like-minded people in high places. This actually _could_ end up being a worst-case scenario, where you’re not able to be alone without me as a damn Neo protector or some shit. Who knows. It all boils down to what the bastards in power want to do. Because now, there’s so little division among the ‘parties’ that we’re basically looking at a completely unified government, all looking to completely consolidate their power.”

Dean held up a hand. “Enough with the poli-sci Stanford crap, Sam. I get it. I’m screwed, you’re looking at a promotion in society’s eyes. So what? It’s not like we interact with society now anyway.”

Sam groaned out a sigh. “Just because we don’t interact doesn’t mean we aren’t _affected_ , Dean. We still have to blend in.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

Silence fell in the motel room. It was broken only by the tapping of Sam’s fingers on his laptop keys, and Dean’s quiet sighs.

The bubble of quiet broke. “Hey, Sam?”

“What, Dean?”

“Mother may I walk to the damn fridge and grab a cold beer?”

“Just get your damn beer, Dean.”

“Thank God.”

“Don’t use your left arm!”

“Jesus Christ, Sam, you mother hen. I’m not moving it. Hey, no, wait, I don’t even have a beer yet, why are you pulling me back to the damn–”

The TV flickered on, a different news reporter saying something about France and the virus.

“Jesus fuck, Sam. Fine.”

Blessed silence fell.

“I still want a goddamn beer, bitch.”

“No alcohol until you’re off pain meds, jerk.”

“Fucker.”

-*-*-*-

It turned out that people eyed Dean, who’d had ample time to really develop Oncer traits, like a pariah. It drove Sam up-a-wall insane. When Dean let him drive, and sometimes when Dean didn’t, Sam fantasized about running every single bigoted asshole over with the Impala, listening to their screams.

Dean had the same look on his face sometimes. It made Sam feel less like a monster that needed to be put down, and more like a righteously angry human being.

He still shivered internally every time he imagined, intentionally or not, some ignorant bastard’s screams as the Impala’s engine gunned to run him down.


	3. Part III

  
  


They were staying in Lebanon, Kansas when a big storm hit. The wind shrieked and the clouds had turned the hazy blue-green that, to every Midwesterner, meant hail, and lots of it. Rain sheeted against the Impala’s windshield and lightning illuminated Dean’s hard-set face every other second.

Sam fidgeted. He hated being on the road in storms, even more so now than before. Before, he could rely on an ambulance, or even just a police officer, to help them if they were hurt. Now they were on their own, and a falling hailstone didn’t make distinctions like that.

“Dean,” he ventured, “Are you sure we should be out in this?”

Dean gritted in reply, “Gotta find shelter for Baby, Sam, before the hail gets here. I don’t have a good hammer to straighten out all the dents anymore. It was at … at Bobby’s.”

“Right,” Sam said, shrinking back slightly in his seat as the rain only seemed to intensify.

“What, Sammy, you afraid of a little sprinkle?” Dean quipped, eyes still laser-focused on the pavement in front of the Impala’s wheels.

Sam looked to the side and hissed in a breath, hand grabbing for Dean’s arm. “Um, Dean?” he began, and the tentative _terror_ in his brother’s voice had Dean paying attention. Sam continued, “If this is a sprinkle, then that tornado on the left of us is a dust devil.”

“Holy fucking shit!” Dean exclaimed, seeing what Sam had been staring at for the last few seconds. “What the fuck! Holy Christ, we’re in its path.”

Sam white-knuckled the door handle as Dean spun the car onto what appeared to be an opening to a dirt road, apologizing under his breath to Baby all the while: “Hey, girl, I know it hurts, I’m sorry, but that thing was spinning tree branches and tin roofs and all sorts of shit that would really put a dent in you, so forgive me, yeah?”

They squealed to a stop as an overhang appeared, sheltering the Impala just enough for them both to be able to watch as the tornado swept a path of destruction not a half-mile away, right where they had just been driving. Hail started to fall, and Dean muttered a quiet thank-you to the overhang, which sheltered his beloved car.

Within five minutes, the storm had petered off. “Holy shit,” Sam muttered as he got his first good look around in the light of dusk. “This isn’t natural. Someone constructed this.”

Dean glanced around, noticing what Sam had as well: a door like a garage door, sunk into the bedrock and loam of the hill and overhang they were sheltering in. “Huh,” Dean muttered. “I wonder if anyone’s home?”

-*-*-*-

Apparently, the underground complex was _huge_ , because it took both of them slogging through rain and mud for a good five minutes to find another door.

This door, unlike the other, had a keyhole and a handle, even if it looked like a pipe cover from a distance. Sam tried and failed to pick the lock, and stepped aside to let Dean attempt.

After another five minutes of fiddling, Dean was also forced to admit defeat. “Looks like it needs a special key, Sam,” he muttered. “Let’s go see what the Internet has to say about a bunker hidden on the outskirts of Lebanon, Kansas, yeah?”

Sam muttered something about provenances and sale records as they trudged back to the car. They’d already had an unspoken agreement to just live out of the Impala until they found a way to open the bunker; motels had become more questionable as owners returned unexpectedly to police squatters. (They didn’t look kindly on a Oncer having the balls to tell them that their security sucked, apparently. Dean learned that the hard way.)

When they go back to the car, Sam plopped himself into the passenger seat and plugged in his satellite-wifi stick. It didn’t take Sam long to make a noise of success, fingers clacking on the keys.

Dean turned to his little brother. “You get the scoop on this place?”

“Most of what I’ve got so far is off of conspiracy websites, but it looks solid, especially considering the accuracy of details that we already know, like the location of the place and the need for a special key. But get this: that star on the doors? It’s the sign of a secretive organization, according to this guy. It was called the Men of Letters. Apparently they went dark in the fifties, for reasons unknown. But this guy says he traced the provenance of this land to a man named ‘Albert Magnus.’”

Dean muttered, “Well that sounds very secret-society, all right.” He shook his head. “Anyway, we got a location on this Magnus dude?”

Sam shook his head. “That’s the thing. That’s where the trail ends. Apparently, there’s _no one_ by the name of Albert Magnus recorded as being anywhere around here, ever. But this guy obviously didn’t do a thorough search, because I just found one Albert Magnus buried in a cemetery not far from here.” He paused to give Dean a puckish look. “You ready to go dig up this dude?”

Dean grinned. “Hell yeah.”

The old cemetery was deserted, except for a few Wilds, which Sam took out summarily from afar while Dean began to dig into Magnus’ grave. The gunshots didn’t attract any others, so Sam figured that the pack hadn’t gotten too large just yet. He grabbed a shovel and jumped in to help dig.

The soil was wet from the torrential rains of the storm the day before, so progress went slightly faster than it normally did. When they hit the coffin lid and cracked it open, they found … nothing. Just a skeleton. No key, no note, no secret map.

Dean cursed and kicked the padded sides of the coffin, crushing the corpse’s femur. Sam looked on, bemused, as his brother proceeded to salt and burn the corpse in what he would call a disappointed tantrum.

He went to inspect the other graves with the star of Aquarius engraved on them. He stopped at one Larry Ganem’s grave, staring at a second engraving.

“Dean!” he called, excitement bleeding into his voice. “Looks like we had the wrong grave!”

“What the hell do you mean? This is the Magnus bastard’s grave!” Dean growled back , filling in the grave furiously.

Sam looked up. “Well,” he wheedled, tone getting Dean’s attention, “ _This_ one has the sigil to talk to the dead engraved on it. I don’t think that’s a coincidence, do you?”

Dean crowded over. “Ha! Of course. I knew it all along. Those Men of Letters are a damn cryptic bunch, but we’ve got them pinned, don’t we, Sammy?”

Sam grinned. “Whatever you say, Dean.”

Dean seemed to ignore any aches that had started up (or maybe he didn’t have any). Sam, on the other hand, could feel every shovelful of mud he’d pulled up from the ground in his shoulders and back. He begged off of the dig, and Dean eyed him speculatively before nodding.

It took Dean about twice as long to dig down, but any exhaustion he was beginning to harbor was overcome by the discovery of an empty coffin. “Well, what do you know, Sam,” Dean said, staring at the decomposing silk batting. “Looks like old Larry’s still kicking.” He tilted his head. "Or, he was before Gemini rolled through anyway."

Sam started to head back to the Impala and his laptop. He had a Man of Letters to find.

-*-*-*-

Finding Larry Ganem was as easy as plugging his name into Google. Soon, they had a solid address to investigate.

When they got there, knocking on the door got no response, except for the gurgling growl of a Wild. Dean raised his shotgun, filled with rock salt on one side and an iron rod on the other, while Sam hefted his machete. Sam kicked down the door, confident that any neighbors wouldn’t give a shit, and they slid inside.  
The body of Larry Ganem lay, sightless eyes glaringly open, in front of an armchair. Surprisingly, the Wild hadn’t chewed it to bone and sinew yet.

Sam yelled for Dean as the Wild in question, an older woman wearing a fifties-style dress and the black eyes of the demon-possessed, appeared around the corner. Dean fired both barrels as Sam spun to avoid the projectiles, and then ducked as Sam whirled to lop off the head of the Wild.

A loud scream echoed through the room as black smoke fled the host body, now thoroughly dead. Sam drew in a breath, then steeled himself to look in the dead man’s pockets for the key.

Dean moved to the bedroom, and hummed in success when he found the box inscribed with the Aquarian Star. “Sam, I got it!” he hissed, moving back to where Sam knelt over the corpses. Sam stood and nodded, leaving the bodies where they’d fallen.

They’d burn the house as they left. Nothing else was close enough to catch fire, and the man and his wife deserved to be put to rest.

The flames crackled behind them as Dean gunned the Impala’s engine, pointing them toward the mysterious bunker once again.

-*-*-*-

The Bunker was amazing. (They’d already given it capital-letter status.) That was all Dean had to say. A fully-functioning generator, enough hot water to last them forever and a day due to the underground spring they apparently sat over, a _kitchen_ … Dean was in heaven. Finally, for the first time, he could see himself settling down, here, with Sammy and maybe some other unbigoted survivors to fill the empty rooms.

As soon as they realized how huge the Bunker was, Sam went back out to buy, as he said, “the whole damn unperishable foods section, and a damn huge chunk of the perishables, too.” After all, they had a fridge. Not only that, they had a _huge_ fridge, and a freezer besides. They had a whole _pantry_ to fill with food, and some old cans still sat on the shelves, even. They could house a small _army_ out of this bunker and still not strain the resources, not really.

Right after Sam discovered the pantry, he discovered the library, and Dean knew Sam was sold. Books piled on books, all apparently organized according to some code the Men of Letters had written down in their files. (Those Sam had raided first.)

While Sam went wandering through the stacks, Dean found himself standing in another huge, dusty room, this one filled to the brim with curse boxes and boxes of old files marked with such weird titles as “The Mating Tendencies of Naga: a Comprehensive Study” and “The Remedying of the Penile-Diminishing Totem.” He looked around, one hand covering his crotch, after reading that one. He wasn’t going to touch _anything_.

He wandered through the rows of shelves until he discovered the honest-to-God _dungeon_ hidden away in the back.

“Damn, this place is _awesome_ ,” he muttered, going back to find Sam and cook themselves a real supper for the first time in … ever.

-*-*-*-

Dean practically had to drag Sam away from the archives to get him to eat his food. Even as Sam walked away, his feet dragged and he kept glancing back forlornly at a certain shelf.

“What, Sam,” Dean griped good-naturedly, “The promise of a homemade meal not enough to drag you away?”

Sam jerked. “Huh? No, no. It’s great that you’re cooking, really. Can’t wait. But … I was so close to a breakthrough…”

“About what?”

“A way to bring the demon to the surface of a host, keep them from sinking below the surface, intentionally or not.” Sam stared at Dean, eyes widening. “Dean,” he urged, “Do you realize what that could mean?”

Dean fidgeted. “Well, yeah, so we’d be able to talk to demons again. So? You can take a food break, dude.”

“No, Dean!” Sam hissed, pulling away. “We could figure out where Yellow-Eyes is. We could end this, finally!”

Dean shook his head, grabbing Sam’s arm. “Whoa, there, dude, chill. I promise, the books will be there after you eat.”

Sam plopped down on the chair. “Fine. Where’s the food?” He glanced around. “Let’s make this fast.”

“Whatever, bitch,” Dean griped. He made for the kitchen, bringing out the burgers he’d put together. Hell, he’d even spruced Sam’s up with lettuce and tomatoes and crap, and left off the bacon and American cheese. Sam’s was as healthy as a home-grown American burger could reasonably be.

Dean slid the plate down to where Sam sat, gazing over at the archives again. “Eat up,” he commanded, sitting down to follow his own orders.

Sam eyed the burger, picking up the bun. Dean saw the honest surprise in his face. “What?” he asked. “You thought I forgot that you were a health nut, Sammy? ‘Course not. Don’t doubt me. Now, seriously, eat.”

He watched Sam take the first bite, small smile on his face. Sam’s eyes widened, and his smile grew as well. When Sam made a small noise of happiness, Dean grinned full-out. “What’d I tell you, Sammy,” he said, “Books can wait.”

Sam didn’t even seem to hear him, taking bite after bite out of the burger. Dean dug into his own, too. He had a dungeon to explore.

-*-*-*-

Immediately after eating, Sam returned to the stacks. Dean hung around, turning on Sam’s laptop to see what was going on outside the Bunker.

Turned out, that one scientist from way back when the whole deal with the virus started was right. The virus had already spread through the ocean currents to the European coastline, and it was moving inward hourly. Asia, with its crowded populations crammed into small spaces, was having major problems with Wild containment, too.

Surprisingly, Africa was doing the best out of everywhere when it came to Wild density. Different sites speculated as to why: different genetics, different culture, less interbreeding, more diversity of genes. Even with the “advantage,” though, the continent was still being slowly overrun. They just were able to keep their cities mostly intact.

Dean closed the laptop. Enough depressing shit for one day. Time to go look at the dungeon.

He was just walking away when Sam shouted, “Dean! I found it!”

He turned back around on a dime. “Really?” he returned.

“Yeah!” Sam said, coming out of the stacks, book in one hand, box of files under his other arm. “The Men of Letters even have records of their experiments.”

“Huh,” Dean replied. “Well, lay it on me. How do we chat up a demon in this day and age?”

Sam’s mouth flattened out, but Dean could see the smile peeking through. “It’s not that difficult,” Sam continued. “We should have everything we need, except _maybe_ the owl feathers plucked under a new moon.”

Dean mused, “You know, I think I saw some box with a label like that on it in the storage room. I’ll go check, you see what else we’d need.”

“Right,” Sam agreed. “I’ll grab the other stuff from our bags and the storage closet I saw when I was digging through this place.”

Dean almost ran to the dungeon, feet light. They could actually have a chance at this! Finally, they’d be able to find Yellow-Eyes when he was at a disadvantage, trapped within a Wild’s mind. Finally, they could exact their revenge on the bastard who killed both Mom and Dad. Dean skidded to a stop inside the storeroom, already glancing around for the label. Sure enough, there it was: “Owl Feathers: New Moon.”

Dean just grabbed the whole box and headed back to the archives. He found Sam hunched over the book he’d brought over, muttering to himself.

“We got everything?” he asked, “I’ve got the feathers here.”

Sam nodded absently. “Great,” he muttered, “That’s good. I’ve got everything else.” He looked up. “Now all we need is the demon.”

Dean grinned. “Hell yeah,” he cheered quietly. “Wild-wrangling time!”

-*-*-*-

Wild-wrangling was as difficult as it sounded. Even Dean had aches and pain surfacing by the time they had a Wild with black eyes securely trussed up and stuck in the back of the Impala, centered directly under the devil’s trap in the trunk as an extra precaution.

“Okay,” Dean sighed. “One demon down. Now what?”

Sam sighed, trying to stretch out an ache in his shoulder where the Wild had landed a hit. “Now we get back to the Bunker. I’ll need to set this ritual up, preferably with the Wild in a devil’s trap, since it sounds like they still work.”

Dean grinned. “I’ve got the perfect place, Sammy. You’ll love it.” He led him down to the storeroom and opened the dungeon doors.

“Holy shit,” Sam breathed, staring around at the dungeon Dean led him to.

Dean huffed a laugh behind him, dragging the drugged-out-of-its-mind Wild into the trap and then stepping out as quickly as he could. “So you like?” he asked.

“This is amazing,” Sam replied.

“Yep,” Dean replied, finding the spell ingredients and setting them up in order. “Now, c’mon. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Sam refocused, bending down next to him. “Okay,” he began. “You’ll need to do the ingredient-adding at the exact intervals I marked in the chant. I need to focus on this pronunciation.”

“Cool,” Dean replied, sitting down by the bowl. “So just I just sprinkle it in when you get there and then burn it all as soon as you’re done?”

“Exactly,” Sam answered, already refreshing himself on the chant. “I even drew you pictures of what needs to happen when.”

Dean eyed the squiggles. “Uh huh. Well, ah, thank you for the … pictures. Very informative.” He eyed a particularly enigmatic scrawl in the center of the page. “Is … that an eye?”

“Yeah. Eye of a toad. Needs to be whole, so don’t squish it, okay?”

Dean wiped his hands on his jeans. “Man,” he whined, “I really _hate_ witchcraft. Why couldn’t they use less nasty ingredients, like, I dunno, leaf of grass?”

Sam sighed. “Just put the ingredients into the bowl in the exact order and at the exact times I wrote down.” He started to chant.

Dean listened with one ear to what sounded like archaic Latin, waiting for his cues. He kept his eyes on the Wild, which had already begun to stir.

He shouldn’t have worried about missing a cue. Every time Sam got close, he’d nudge Dean’s knee with his foot. Hard. Dean ended up glaring at Sam, and missed the final climax of the chant.

He whipped back to the Wild when a voice, hoarse and gurgling, spoke. “Why, hello, Winchesters,” the demon greeted, eyes coal-black. “Fancy meeting you two here. You’re not dead yet.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. Dean got the shivers just glancing at him; he’d hate to have been the demon. “No, we’re not,” Sam agreed, voice falsely light. “Is that a problem?”

“Oh no,” wheedled the demon. “Not at all. In fact, it’s almost humorous, that you two have managed to survive everything thrown at you, even something so … mundane.”

Dean stepped in. “So your kind didn’t have anything to do with the outbreak?”

The demon grinned. “Nasty piece of work, that. Such glorious destructive power, all encased in one little particle of protein and genetic material. I think I’m in love with whoever came up with that.”

“Did you have a hand in it?” Sam demanded, voice low.

“Well, _I_ didn’t,” the demon replied. “I’m just a lowly little minion. All I had to do topside was hang around, kill a few humans, gather a few souls. The higher-ups wouldn’t have told me anything. But I wouldn’t be surprised if someone _did_. Hell, this is almost Raum’s style.”

Sam growled, “Do you have anything _useful_ to say? Besides useless speculation?”

Dean put a hand on Sam’s arm. “Hey, we have a name,” he said. “Raum. We can try summoning him, see what happens.”

The demon giggled. “Oh, that won’t work,” he interrupted. “Raum’s too smart to be summoned. He’ll not leave Hell. He _hates_ up top now, being trapped in his meatsuit.”

“Then how do we _talk_ to him?” Sam hissed.

“You don’t,” the demon answered. “All you can do is run around in circles, chasing your own tail, trying to fix a world that’s long past fixing. I wish you luck, you two. If you want to get to the bottom of this mess, you’ll damn well need it.”

Dean saw the demon’s hand, nails ragged, moving. He jumped forward, even as Sam lunged for him. His foot landed square on the line of the painted devil’s trap, scuffing the old paint. The demon drove its own hand into its chest, grabbing the Wild host’s heart and tugging until it pulled free.

The demon’s essence flowed out, and the host died, face screwed up in the demon’s final, triumphant laugh.

Dean looked down at his feet. “Well, fuck.”

-*-*-*-

They repainted the entire devil’s trap in the basement floor, and coated it with a sealant mixed with ground-up rock salt just to give it some extra oomph.

After the first demon, and subsequent quasi-failure, Sam started to follow demon-signs again. Any time a major anomaly cropped up, he’d poke Dean into loading up the Impala and driving them out there. “C’mon, Dean,” he’d wheedle. “Maybe this time it’s one that was close to Raum before the virus got free.”  
Months passed, and a new demon graced the dungeon practically every week. They all said different things.

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard that Raum definitely had a hand in it.”

“What are you talking about? Raum hasn’t been topside in centuries. He loves his racks too much. I’d bet Baal had a hand in it, though. Much more his style.”

“Baal? Ha! No, no way. I’ve met him; he’s a smarmy douche, even for a demon, and he hasn’t been topside since there were sacrifices to his name.”

“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Demons had nothing to do with this. This was all human stupidity.”

In the end, Sam always exorcised the meatsuit before killing the Wild, still left with no useful information, and no real possible leads.

He trudged back up the stairs to the archives, cleaning the machete blade. “Dean?” he called. “This one was a bust, too. You have anything better?”

Dean came around the corner, laptop in hand. “I may not have any _huge_ signs, but I’ve got video of one _very_ familiar-looking Wild with black eyes. Come over here, Sammy.”

Sam walked over, perking up a bit. He peered at the screen. A flash of short blond hair, smudged eyeliner, a very familiar profile. “Meg?” Sam breathed.

Dean grinned up at him. “Yep! Looks like we have someone who could actually have some real information, Sam. You know she’s Yellow-Eyes’ right-hand-woman. She probably knows _exactly_ what went down.”

“Well then what are you waiting for?” Sam asked, breathless at the possibility that they could be getting closer to finally finding the reason for the outbreak. “Let’s go grab Meg.”

Dean moved toward the garage. “I’ve already got holy water, salt shells, and iron rounds loaded. I even repainted the devil’s trap in the trunk. Let’s get on the road.”

Sam followed him, and soon after they were driving toward Lawrence, Kansas, where they’d last seen Meg’s meatsuit.

-*-*-*-

When Dean pulled into Lawrence, it was dead quiet. Nothing moved.

Suddenly, a flurry of movement caught his eye. He nudged Sam, and made to start the car to get out of there.

There was a pack of thirty or so Wilds chasing something. At first, Dean thought it was a large animal of some kind, so he was perfectly all right with leaving it to its fate.

Then, as the whole group moved closer, Dean tore his hand away from the Impala’s key, grabbed his shotgun, and made to step out of the car.

Sam, who’d been watching him more than he’d been watching the Wild pack, jumped and asked, “What the … Dean?”

Dean cursed as his jacket got caught on the door. “Sam,” he hissed, “That’s a person out there! C’mon, we gotta help!”

Sam noticed what Dean had already seen, and jumped into action as well. He grabbed for his shotgun, before he remembered that it had been loaded with rock salt. Instead, he took his pistol and his machete. Iron rods would do more damage.

“Dean,” he reminded, “Rock salt!” Dean cursed again at the reminder and dropped the shotgun on his seat, picking up his own pistol and machete. In the process, his jacket came free from the snag, and they both sprinted for the oncoming pack of Wilds.

“Hey!” Sam shouted, “You!” The running person looked up, and Dean could see the surprise on her face. “Yeah, you!” Sam waved his pistol. The girl blanched and ducked as Sam leveled the gun, shouting, “Get down!”

Shots rang out from both Dean and Sam’s guns as they advanced, taking out as many Wilds as they could before they had to fight in close. The girl they’d saved hunkered down inside an abandoned car with unlocked doors; she’d crawled there as the projectiles flew over her head.

Dean was just glad that she was out of the way. There were a lot of Wilds out. He needed as few distractions as possible.

As he shot, reloading frantically while the still-living Wilds turned to eat the ones he’d just downed, Dean made sure to try and watch for Meg’s face. With every Wild downed, it seemed, another rose in its place, but none of them had the short blond crop of Meg’s meatsuit.

Sam stood directly behind him, their shoulders almost pressed together. They’d learned the hard way that getting separated never ended well for either of them, so they always stuck close.

Finally, the Wilds’ numbers diminished, and Dean felt comfortable with leaving Sam to clean up the stragglers while he checked on the girl. He walked slowly over to the car, shoulders relaxed, gun held loosely at his side.

“Don’t come any closer!” the girl cried, shoving what looked like a blunt piece of piping out the broken car window. “I know how to use this!”

Dean almost laughed, but the serious look on her face had him tone it down to a smirk. “Hey, now,” he replied. “Is that any way to treat your rescuers?”

Her wavering voice filtered out of the car. “I had it covered.”

“Right,” Dean chuckled; he couldn’t help it. “And that’s why you were being chased by upwards of thirty Wilds, looking absolutely beat, with no weapon in hand. You definitely had it covered.”

“Shut up,” the other replied, voice petulant. “And go away. I don’t need your help. I’ve made it this far on my own.”

Dean sighed. “Hey, man, me and my brother just wanted to help out. Hell, I know what it’s like to be outnumbered and outgunned. It sucks. You gotta admit that maybe you bit off a bit more than you could chew.”

A head covered in fine red hair poked up from where she’d been sheltering behind the door. “That’s your brother?”

“Yeah,” Dean answered. “My little bro, Sammy. You better call him Sam, though; he gets tetchy about things like that.”

A hand was pushed out the window. It was covered in the dirt and grime of a long time on the road without access to a shower. The head surfaced fully, showing off a bright smile and elven eyes. “I’m Charlie. Thanks for, well, for saving my bacon back there.”

Dean took the proffered hand, ignoring the dirt it got on his own. “And I’m Dean, and I’m glad we got here in time to save your bacon.”

Charlie opened the door, glancing around. “So, you’re sure they’re all gone?”

Sam walked over, ignoring Charlie’s mutter of “Goodness, you’re tall.”

“No Meg out here, Dean. We’ll have to come back later.” He looked down at Charlie, who seemed to be gazing at him with some slight hero-worship. “Who’s this?”

Charlie started. “Oh! Right! Um, I’m Charlie, and you’re Sammy – um, I mean Sam. Sorry. Um. Thanks for saving me.”

Sam smiled. “It’s what we do, Charlie. You want to come back to our base, maybe get a shower? Or do you have somewhere to be?”

Dean saw her shoulders slump, and almost scolded Sam. Sam looked worried enough for both of them, though, so he held off and paid attention to what Charlie was saying.

“I don’t have anywhere to be. You know how it is. Us Oncers …” she nodded at Dean “… well, I guess we’re having a rough time of it, huh?” She shook herself. “But whatever! Anyway, what’s this I heard about a home base? Sounds intriguing.”

Dean smiled. “Well, I tried to get Sam to call it the Batcave, but he insisted on just calling it the Bunker. Boring, if you ask me.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean, just because you have an unholy fascination with Batman does not mean that I will cater to that obsession.”

“Hey now, don’t lie, Batman’s pretty awesome,” Charlie interrupted. “I don’t know if I can get behind the manpain and angst of the recent adaptations, but overall, Batman’s cool.”

Dean raised his arms in success. “See, Sam?” he exulted, “Someone else who knows the awesomeness of Batman.”

Sam was about to come back with another jab at Dean’s tastes when a growl echoed toward them from an alleyway. “Right,” Charlie whispered, suddenly quiet. “Wilds like the smell of blood. There’s … a lot of blood. So, um, about that bunker?”

Dean followed her as Sam led them back to the Impala, muttering, “Batcave, c’mon. You gotta call it the _Batcave_ or I’ll never hear the end of it from Sam.” Charlie had to stifle a slightly hysterical giggle, even as she sped up her pace once the car came into view.

They all piled into the car and Dean gunned it back to the Bunker. He could’ve sworn, though, as he swung the car around, that he caught sight of a blond head moving their way.

The drive back to the Bunker was quiet, although Charlie did occasionally have questions like “How do you still get gas for this thing?” and “Are these real silver?”

Dean answered the gas question while Sam removed the silver bullets from Charlie’s possession. He had to admit that maybe he’d thrown those back there on purpose when they were loading up, just to make sure that Charlie wasn’t some kind of non-demonic supernatural monster. They were still hunters, after all.

When they pulled up to the garage and triggered the doors, Charlie opened gawked. “Wow,” she hushed. “This really is like the Batcave, isn’t it?” Sam ignored Dean’s smug look and inspected the garage, making sure that nothing had been moved since they’d been gone. Who knew what ghosts lurked in that place.  
Charlie stepped out of the car and looked down at herself. “Um,” she began, “Any chance you guys have a shower?”

Dean nodded, saying, “Yeah, but it’s a communal one. We’ll let you go first. You need it more than us. Nothing like awesome water pressure and actual hot water to make you feel more human, am I right?”

Charlie nodded sheepishly and headed in the direction Dean pointed before turning around. “I … guess you guys don’t have any spare clothes, huh.”

Sam stepped in. “We’ll dig around. For right now, let me go get you a bathrobe. I’ll hang it on the hook on the inside of the door, okay? Promise I’ll keep my eyes closed.”

Charlie smiled. “Thanks, Sam,” she threw over her shoulder as she headed to the shower.

Sam moved to get the bathrobe, noticing Dean moving toward the kitchen. It was a good idea. Charlie looked like she hadn’t had a decent meal in weeks, let alone something as good as Dean’s cooking. He did need to remind Dean of one thing, though: “Dean, nothing too rich, okay?”

An affirmative yell was his only answer, and Sam found the bathrobe in short order. He hung it on the shower door, eyes tightly shut, noting the sound of water running. He smiled when he heard Charlie singing “Walking on Sunshine.” It was the perfect song for her.

After he found the bathrobe, Sam went on the hunt for actual clothes for a person Charlie’s size. (He didn’t care if they were meant for a guy or a girl, as long as they looked like they fit. He knew what ill-fitting clothes felt like, and he wanted to spare her that if at all possible.) He picked through closet upon closet in almost every bedroom the Bunker sported before he found the motherlode: a room obviously meant for some Man of Letter’s girlfriend, with long-wilted flowers in a vase and tons of fifties-era clothes hanging, somewhat mustily, in the closet. He had a feeling that Charlie wouldn’t want a dress, so he searched until he found the stash of casual pants and shirts in the back.

He hoped Charlie wasn’t bothered by the smell of their detergent, because he _really_ needed to wash these outfits before he gave them to her.  
Charlie was long out of the shower, looking slightly uncomfortable in her borrowed bathrobe that came down to her ankles, by the time Sam emerged from the laundry room. She’d obviously managed to overcome her discomfort enough to eat, though, because a plate with only crumbs left sat in front of her.

She hiccupped. “Oops, too much food,” she sighed. “Oh well. It was _delicious_ , though.”

Sam grinned. “Never fear, I come bearing gifts of real clothing.”

“Oh thank _God_ ,” Charlie sighed. “I mean, not that I hate the robe, because it’s nice, but …”

Sam continued when her voice trailed off and her face pinked. “But you feel really underdressed. I hear you. That’s why I leave the old-man-robe wearing to Dean. He seems to like it.”

She shuddered, taking the clothes from him. “Bully for him then. As for me, I’d like to be wearing actual _clothes_.”

She emerged from the bedroom-hallway a few minutes later, wearing her “new” clothing. “So, how do I look?”

Sam grinned. “Like you stepped straight out of the fifties. All you need is a new hairstyle and some pearls.”

“Shucks,” Charlie muttered, “I was trying to get away from that.”

“Well, we can always go raid a department store later, get you some more modern clothes,” Sam offered. “It’s not like anyone really is around to care anymore.”

Charlie looked at him strangely for a short time before smiling. “You know,” she mused, “No one’s offered to rob a department store for me before.”

Dean walked in on the tail end of that statement. “What?” he interrupted. “No one’s robbing anyone without me, you hear?”

All three of them broke into giggles.

After a few minutes of giggling, Sam sighed and tried to get his breathing back to normal. “Charlie,” he tried, “Hey. So, you can stay here if you want.”

Charlie looked up, and Sam wasn’t sure if the sudden shininess in her eyes was tears of mirth or of mourning. “Well, it’s not like I have anywhere to go back to. My parents are dead and my foster parents tossed me out when the whole Neo-Oncer thing started getting big,” she stated seemingly carelessly. Sam could hear the wobble in her voice, but decided not to call her on it.

“You can trust me when I say that we won’t do that to you, Charlie,” he soothed. “See, me and Dean are Neo and Oncer, I guess. It doesn’t really matter to us. We’re still brothers.”

Dean cut in, insisting, “And just because you’re smaller than some beefed-up dude doesn’t mean you’re weak. I’d bet you a million bucks that no damn Neo could’ve done all the running you must’ve to get clear of those Wilds. They would’ve folded.”

Sam smiled sheepishly. “We know that from the bitter experience of yours truly.”

Charlie glanced back and forth. “You mean … I can actually stay?”

“Of course!” Dean exclaimed. “Hell, maybe you’ll help me get Sammy over here to admit – finally – that this _is_ the Batcave, and that nothing he says refutes that!”

Charlie grinned. “I’d be honored. But first … you mentioned something about getting me some clothes?”

Sam got up and grabbed the Impala keys from Dean’s hand. “I’ll drive you out to Lebanon. There’s a mall up there, nothing too big, but then again it’s the big structures that pull Wilds in. _Dean_ will be looking at the _thing_ we were looking for in Lawrence when we found you. Won’t you, Dean?” Dean rolled his eyes, but nodded, grabbing the laptop and starting it up.

They left the Bunker behind quickly, Charlie fidgeting in her hand-me-down clothes and Sam trying to remember the face of the blond Wild he’d seen out of the corner of his eye.

Maybe they still had a chance at bagging Meg.

-*-*-*-

Charlie returned to the Bunker with Sam behind her, lugging bag after bag of technically-stolen clothing. (Sam had left all of the cash left in his long-forgotten wallet on the counter. It wasn’t much, and he was sure that no one would ever be returning to that store, but it never hurt to be sure.)

When Sam stumbled into the archives, arms still a little sore from lugging so many bags such a long way, Dean was already waiting. “She asleep?” he asked.

“I dunno,” Sam answered, “Go ask her yourself.”

Charlie’s voice from behind him made both of them freeze. “Ask me what?”

Dean stuttered, “Oh! Um, well, you see …”

Sam talked over his idiot of a brother. “We’re going back to Lawrence. No, you can’t come. Yes, it will be dangerous. Why? There’s something we really need out there.”

Charlie asked, “How did you know what I would say?” She continued before Sam could answer. “Never mind, rhetorical. What do you need so badly? And why can’t I come? Why does this feel like some super-spy thing?”

Dean chuckled. “No, nothing like that. We just need to collect something and bring it back here. The thing we’re getting _is_ really dangerous, so when you hear the car, stay in whatever room you’ve picked out, okay? Sam will come get you when we’re done.”

Charlie eyed them both. “Right … and I should do this … why?”

Sam sighed. “Look, Charlie, have you ever seen a Wild with black eyes? Like, completely black?”

Charlie nodded hesitantly. “I thought that was just a rare side effect.”

“Nope. The eyes are a sign of demon possession. But the demon is trapped in the Wild, due to some change in brain chemistry from the virus. So they don’t have any control. But we need to talk to a certain demon, whose host we’ve seen hanging around Lawrence.”

Charlie cut him off. “Wait, hold your horses. You’re saying _demons_ are a thing?”

“Yep,” Dean answered, nodding.

“Oh God.” Charlie sat down slowly at the table, then rested her head on her folded arms. “Okay. Hold on. Rebuilding my worldview, give me a few.”

Sam patted her shoulder. “It’s okay. They can’t intentionally harm anyone anymore, since they’re stuck inside the Wilds. So you don’t have to worry about that.”

Charlie looked up. “I’m not as worried about _that_ , Sam. I’m trying to reconcile the fact that _demons exist_ with the fact that society has gone to hell in a handbasket. Are they connected?”

Sam shrugged. “We’re not sure. That’s what we’re trying to find out. We know this demon we’re looking for–” he ignored Charlie’s startled squeak at that statement “–and we’ve seen her meats- host around. So we’re going to bring her in, bring the demon to the forefront, and ask her some questions.”

Charlie looked faintly queasy as she replied, “Right. I’ll just … be in my room then.” Sam felt kind of bad, just dumping the reality of the darker side of the world on her like that. But it had to be done. Otherwise she’d get a rude awakening.

They left Charlie behind, instead heading to the Impala, shotguns and pistols in hand, ready to finally get Meg.

-*-*-*-

After all of the build-up, fighting off hordes of Wilds to save Charlie and almost spotting her meatsuit several times, capturing Meg really wasn’t all that difficult. All Dean had to do was shoot the host in the chest with a round of rock salt, and Meg went down like a sack of potatoes.

Sam had to wonder if that was contrived. If Meg was more aware, and more in control, than other demons.

They’d soon find out.

Sam chanted through the ritual from memory now, having performed it so often that he practically spoke it in his sleep. He let Dean mix the ingredients now mostly because he knew that his brother wanted some part in it, and would get testy if left to stand there holding his gun while Sam practiced a milder form of witchcraft.

When the mixture in the bowl lit up in flames, noxious smoke, more than normal, rose, and a voice echoed from behind the cloud.

“Hello again, boys,” Meg said, sounding just as put-together as she had before the whole mess.

“Meg,” Sam growled.

“Sam,” she hummed, the smile on her face becoming apparent as the smoke cleared. “Thank you ever so for letting me talk to you two. Dare I say it? I missed you clowns.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Cut the crap, Meg. We aren’t best buds, never will be. So shut up.”

Meg turned to him. “Oh, Dean,” she mused lightly, “So confrontational. You haven’t loosened up at all, have you?”

Sam moved toward her with a flask of holy water. “Ah, ah, ah!” she cried, eyeing the flask. “I know what you want, but I’m not saying one word unless you put that water and salt away.”

Sam looked to Dean, seeing a slight nod. He tucked the closed flask back into his jacket.

“Good boy, Sammy,” Meg purred. His hand moved back to the flask, but she stopped him with a glance to Dean. Sam fumed as she purred, “Now, why can’t we be friends?”

He hissed, “Because you _possessed_ me, made me _kill_ , made me _shoot Dean_. You sent the daevas after us. You think that’s friendship?”

Dean put a hand on his shoulder. Sam turned to his brother, outraged at what he saw as capitulation, before he noticed the fury hiding in the hard lines of Dean’s face. “Easy, Sammy,” Dean whispered. “We need her info.”

Meg laughed lightly. “Oh, yes you do, you two. You’ve been barking up the wrong tree all along.”

“What do you mean?” challenged Sam.

“Raum and Baal haven’t be topside in millennia. And they don’t have the power, or the will, to make what happened go through. No, boys. If any demon had a hand in the Gemini virus, it was Azazel.”

Dean cocked his head. “Who?”

“For the love of hell,” Meg groaned, “You two are hopeless. _Azazel_. The demon with yellow eyes who burned your mommy and doomed your daddy to hell. The one whose blood runs in Sammy’s veins.”

Sam froze. “You mean … _Yellow-Eyes’_ name is Azazel?”

“That’s right, Sammy. You’re making connections.”

“What, Sam?” Dean asked, staring at the facial expressions that flickered over his brother’s face: incredulity, fear, awe, horror.

“Dean,” Sam began, “Azazel was Lucifer’s general, if you believe the texts. He’s older than _dirt_ , and almost as powerful as _the_ devil himself.”

Dean threw up his hands. “Okay then! Whatever. So what. The Colt will still kill him, right?”

Meg spoke up. “But your daddy gave him the Colt as part of his deal to save your life, Dean. You don’t have the Colt anymore.”

Sam cursed. He’d wondered where the gun had disappeared to. It made sense. John Winchester logic: if all else fails, give up every-damn-thing to save _Dean_.

“Fuck this,” he fumed. “Look, Meg, thanks for the heads-up. Do you have anything else to say before we send you back to where you belong?”

Dean eyed Sam warily, but let him take the lead. He knew how the topic of their dad had the tendency to bring out Sam’s fury.

Meg tilted her head, as if in thought. “Well,” she purred, “I guess I have one last request.”

She paused. Sam growled, “And what’s that?”

She smiled slowly, a predator’s grin, all teeth. “Don’t send me back. End the spell, knock out this meatsuit, and let it run wild.”

Dean stared at her. “But … you’ll have no control.”

“Nope,” she stated, eyes bright with something manic. “And it’s glorious. All that carnage, all that destruction, and I don’t have to lift a single finger. I’m just along for the ride.”

Sam lifted the bowl, ready to dump it and end the spell. Dean readied the shotgun. “You sure?” Sam checked.

“Do it, Sammy. Don’t be a damn wimp.”

Sam flipped the bowl, and ashes and half-burned bits of char spilled across the floor. Dean fired the shotgun, and the Wild sank to the floor.

They had to scratch out a small section of the trap, but they managed. When the Wild lumbered away after they dropped it in Lawrence, Sam could’ve sworn he heard Meg laugh.

They drove back to the Bunker, forgetting about her.

They had to find Yellow-Eyes … Azazel.


	4. Part IV

  
  


Now they had a purpose. Charlie, seeing that her bunker-mates were altogether too focused on hunting demons to take care of themselves, elected herself mother hen. She prodded Dean, around noon and seven o’clock, to cook something. She handled breakfast, so it normally boiled down to oatmeal, toast and peanut butter, or cereal. Sam didn’t seem to mind. He barely seemed to taste what he ate, eyes always scanning his computer screen, on the lookout for what he termed as “demon signs:” cow mutilations, lightning storms, freak disappearances.

Charlie also had to manage the perishable-food situation. She pitied Sam and his desire for healthy food as opposed to Dean’s love of all things decidedly _un_ healthy, and as such managed to squeeze in more and more produce from the farmer’s market that had popped up down the road. People were apparently moving back into Kansas, and trying to make a livelihood again, around the threat of Wilds. Most people packed some kind of firearm, and some carried long knives as well.

One of the few times Dean went with her, taking a break for some sunlight and fresh air, he stopped cold upon seeing a woman Charlie had been seeing around. “Charlie,” he muttered, “If you could go find the produce you want, I want to have a word with the nice lady with the Bowie knives over there.”

Charlie agreed, not wanting to get in the middle of something. She wandered off, looking back only once to see Dean gesturing to the knife the woman was now holding. It didn’t _look_ hostile, so she decided to let it be.

-*-*-*-

Dean eyed the woman in front of him. She looked pretty normal for their changed world: black hair cropped short to keep it out of the way, brown eyes scanning her surroundings even as she focused on him, shotgun slung over her back, twin knives hanging off of her belt.

It was the knives that caught his attention. Sigils covered every inch, inlaid in what looked to be silver, which would make the darker metal of the blade iron. The sigils were nothing he’d ever seen before. He was sure that if Sam was looking at them, he’d be babbling something geeky about their purpose and the strength of their materials only adding to the potency.

He looked up from eyeing her weaponry to find her eyeing his face.

“You look familiar,” she murmured. “Are you around here often?”

Dean held up a hand. “Lady, if that was a pick-up line, let me tell you: you look wonderful, but I’m not interested.”

Her face went flat. “I was simply remarking on the fact that I think I’ve seen you here before. Don’t assume based on your ego.”

Dean held up his other hand. “Okay, hey, sorry. Still not used to the brave new world, okay? No offense meant.” He waited through the awkward pause as she stared at him, obviously still unconvinced. He tried, “Those knives caught my eye …” He jumped when said knife was pointed at his throat. “Whoa, whoa, not threatening, just commenting, just commenting!” He looked around for help, only to find that everyone was studiously ignoring him.

Her eyes narrowed. “I will not give you my knives, which I forged, simply because you are male and Neo.”

Dean gulped, eyeing the _very_ sharp blade still pointing at his throat. “Hey, hey, I think you’ve got me pinned wrong. Can we have a restart? Seriously. I swear to all that is holy that I will not take your weapons. I respect them too much–” Dean squeaked when the tip got closer “–respect _you_ too much. I swear. I’m not a Neo, really, I swear.”

The knife point lowered. Her eyes hardened in suspicion. “You have too much muscle to be a Oncer. You lie.”

Dean shook his head frantically, one eye always on the dark blade. “Nope, I’m definitely not a Neo. Got the extended endurance and all. Promise. It’s my brother who’s the Neo – eep!”

The woman had raised the blade again, after she’d begun to lower it. She hissed, “So you act on your _brother’s_ authority. You bow to your Neo master like …” She trailed off, noticing Dean’s frantic head-shaking. “You deny it?”

Dean nodded. “I swear, my brother and I are equals. Entirely. I raised the kid, he listens to me, hell, he defers to me sometimes. My name is Dean, he’s Sam, if you’re a hunter you may have heard of us. We’re the Winchester brothers, we’re John Winchester’s kids.”

The knife lowered again. “John Winchester would not raise his sons to be subordinate to any but him. Is he around?”

“No,” Dean replied, eyes lowered. “He died. Trying to take out Yellow-Eyes, I mean Azazel.”

Finally, the knife lowered entirely. The woman’s eyes softened slightly. “Then I am sorry for your loss. Let’s, as you said, start over, Dean. My name is Ashley. Call me Ash.”

Dean eyed Ashley – Ash – warily. She still hadn’t put up the knife. He proffered his hand. “Like I said, I’m Dean. Nice to meet you, I suppose. Could’ve done without the knife to the throat.” He tried to chuckle. It came out strangled, adrenalin still running high. She shook his hand with the hand not holding a knife. He tried not to flinch. He tried to continue the conversation, feeling another awkward silence coming on. “So you forged those knives yourself? Really? That’s. That’s pretty awesome. Um.”

She laughed. The suspicion lessened. Dean was glad his stumbling efforts at conversation were so amusing, then. Her laugh slowed, and she hummed, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. I understand why you’re so terrified. Give a girl two big knives and she’ll scare the shit out of anyone.”

Dean nodded once. “I’ll say. So you forged them yourself? Why those sigils? And why silver and iron?”

Ash fingered the hilt of her other knife, sliding the first back into her belt. “I’m surprised you and your brother don’t know about them. In combination with certain metals, such as the silver and iron I used, these sigils grant extra … potency to a weapon. With these knives, I can kill a demon, along with its Wild host.”

Dean stared. “You’re joking.”

“Trust me, I don’t joke,” she stated. “I’ve been doing this for a while.”

“Sounds like there’s a story here.” He raised a hand as she turned to walk away. “Hey now, just saying. If you want to come back to Sam and I’s base, we can have a home-cooked meal, cooked by yours truly, and share some stories. I’m sure you have some doozies.”

Ash eyed him speculatively. “I suppose I do. Maybe I’ll take you up on that, Dean Winchester.” She turned to wander off.

Dean reached out, asking, “So, you coming?”

She replied over her shoulder, “I’d know John Winchester’s car anywhere, Dean. I’ll find you.”

-*-*-*-

Charlie walked back to the Impala to find the woman Dean had gone to talk to standing by the car. Dean was nowhere to be seen.

“Hey,” she called. The woman turned, and Charlie noticed her hand moving toward her knife. “Whoa, hey, no harm. I’m with Dean.” No reaction. “Dean Winchester. Sam’s brother. He’s a Oncer like me, no matter how brawny he still looks.”

Her hand moved away, and she smiled. “I’m sorry. Being jumpy comes with the territory these days.”

Charlie smiled back. “No problem. I get it. So, you coming back with us?”

“For a short time. Enough to try out this cooking of Dean’s.”

“Well, you won’t be disappointed,” replied Charlie, smiling. “Dean’s awesome in the kitchen. Now, if only I could get him to make something _healthy_ …” She giggled at her own joke, and heard the other laugh lightly as well. “Oh! Right, introductions,” she said. “I’m Charlie. The brothers took me in after they saved me from some Wilds.”

“My name is Ashley, but you can call me Ash,” the other said.

Dean strolled up, arms full of packages of meat and sliced cheese. “I’m glad you two are getting along,” he said.

Charlie turned to him, quipping, “Was there ever any doubt? I need some female company every once in a while, dude. A break from the constant testosterone.” Ash laughed again behind her as Dean rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Get in the car, you two. It’s Winchester’s famous chicken enchiladas tonight.”

Later the four of them sat around the table in the Bunker’s kitchen, full of frankly amazing food and sipping on their beers.

Dean noticed Ash looking pensively at the tabletop and cleared his throat. “Hey, if I remember correctly, you promised us a story.”

Ash glanced up and tilted her head. “Why don’t you go first. I’d like to know how hunters of the things that go bump in the night became Wild-killers.”

Dean grimaced, noting that Sam did the same. “Well, sweetheart,” he drawled, ignoring her pursed mouth at the name, “I’m going to need something a little stronger for that.” He stood to grab the whiskey from the countertop, where it’d been sitting since the last time he needed to take the edge off his grief. He popped it open and poured himself a generous glass, downing that with a grimace before pouring himself another. “You want?” At the others’ head shakes, he shrugged and knocked back the second glass, feeling the burn go down his throat. He sighed.

“Now,” he began, “This ain’t a pretty story. But I figure you know that, so just let me talk. Ask questions at the end if you really have to.” Sam shifted his chair closer in solidarity, even as he didn’t say a word, and Dean felt a kernel of warmth bloom in his chest. His brother had his back, could take over if telling Bobby’s story got to be too much.

Dean sucked in a breath, already feeling his eyes stinging. “Ash, you know– knew Bobby, right?” he asked.

“I went to him for help a few times before … everything,” she affirmed. “He was a good man.”

“Okay,” Dean said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Then you know where he lived. Well, me n’ Sam were out in far east Oregon, wrapping up a quick hunt. We saw the footage of the explosion and its … effects, and we fuckin’ got out of there.” He scrubbed at his hairline, feeling Sam shift as if to give him a shoulder to lean on. He sent over a quick smile – more like a grimace, but he thought it was a good attempt – and sighed. “We … we’d made it to Illinois, almost to Indiana, by the time I thought to give Bobby a heads-up.”

Charlie interrupted, “It’s understandable, Dean. You two were running scared.”

Dean pulled his lips away from his teeth, inhaling around the lump in his throat. Charlie leaned back, eyeing him. Sam poked him in the ribs. “Whatever,” Dean muttered, “That’s no excuse. You always watch out for each other in the business. Fucking _always_ , or someone ends up _dead_.” His voice had risen then choked off, and Charlie’s eyes were wide, her face white, as she nodded. Sam poked him harder. Ash glared from across the table.

Dean sighed, clenching and releasing his fist below the tabletop. “Okay, fine. Whatever. Anyway, it’d been a good two days’ drive by then, and the virus had just overrun the west. When–” Dean choked on the words, feeling his eyes burn. “Fuck. When Bobby didn’t answer, we, uh, me n’ Sam, we turned the Impala around, shagged ass back to Sioux Falls. Nothing moved out there when we got in; completely fucking deserted.

"Wilds had just started movin’ in, I guess, ‘cause we avoided them pretty easy. We got to the salvage yard and … nothing. No Bobby, no Rumsfeld … just a fucking ... just a _motherfucking_ buzzard.” Dean choked out the word, spitting it out, trying to keep himself from reliving that goddamn torturous day.

Sam nudged his side, and Dean clenched his fists again. He had a story to tell. “Bobby’d always come out when he heard my baby; he knew her engine anywhere.” His voice softened, reminiscing on the good times, the times when they’d come roaring into Singer Salvage, fugly dead behind them and Bobby’s house in front of them, safety personified. He blinked, and the feeling was lost. He continued, voice tight, “So me n’ Sam knew something’d gone wrong before we even got out of the car. We armed up, cased the place. Some poor bastard’s guts were fucking strewn across his living room, just fucking– motherfucking everywhere. Sam found some tooth marks, too blunt to be anything but …”

Ash cut in, eyes softening. “Anything but human.” Charlie gasped then covered her mouth. Her eyes were bright.

Dean nodded, grateful that she’d finished the thought. He couldn’t have. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah. And then we knew we were too goddamn late.” He choked back a sob, realizing the lump in his throat had grown, feeling heat gathering in his eyes.

 “We went out into the yard, tryin’ to find him, tryin’ to find Bobby, and we find him, and he’s – fuck, I can’t – he’s got Rumsfeld. That damn pooch couldn’t run, I guess. ... I did what I had to do. We gave him a hunter’s funeral.” Dean’s voice petered off, thick with still-fresh grief and guilt.

Charlie stared at him, eyes still too bright, understanding and tears and what could have been _pity_ , and he felt like shrinking until he could hide among the dust motes on the floor. Until someone would step on him without ever knowing and he could just die in peace.

Ash’s voice shook him out of his morbid thoughts. She stated, voice hard but still soft with understanding, “You did what you had to do. If you hadn’t, he would’ve killed so many more.” Sam put a hand on his shoulder, and Dean turned to see a few tears trickling down his little brother’s cheeks. He tried to pull a smile from himself, but wasn’t sure it worked. Sam’s looked about as normal as his felt, though, so he didn’t feel so alone. Ash continued, “Thank you for telling me. I looked for Bobby once the dust settled. When I found the pyre I had only guesses. Now … now I know, at least, what happened.”

Sam nodded, saying, “Yeah. Yeah, I – I get that.”

Dean cleared his throat, knuckling away the tear that had fallen, that he’d tried to stop. “So, um, we still doin’ the story exchange?” he asked, voice rough.

“I suppose we are,” Ash sighed, “Just be warned. Mine isn’t sunshine and rainbows either.”

“I hear you, sister,” Dean sighed, returning to his whiskey. He decided to forego the glass and took a long pull from the bottle. Charlie eyed him speculatively, but she’d never seen him drink, not really. It’d take a lot more than a few mouthfuls of whiskey to get him buzzed, let alone drunk.

Ash closed her eyes, tilting her head back. She began, “My family lives – lived in North Cali. We had a big house up in one of those suburbs you always see in the movies – green lawns, white fences, Lexuses in the driveway, all that. We were living the American Dream. We were … we were pretty happy, I guess.

“We were more happy before I left on a ‘road trip’ after I almost died by a werewolf; another hunter saved me, tried to tell me to keep my head out of it, but after I bugged him enough he told me Bobby’s address. Bobby taught me all he knew then sent me on. I learned so much in twelve months, taking a year off from classes at HSU.”

Dean shook his head. “Wait, wait, you were a _college kid_?” he sputtered, “And you–”

“I wanted to know more,” Ash interrupted, voice hard. “I almost _died_ , Winchester. I found out that I been living with my head buried in the proverbial sand, and I wanted to be able to _know_ next time what to do. So, yes. I took an extended vacation to go learn about hunting the dangers in the night, instead of wasting my life learning how to _write a coherent essay_. Is that a problem?” She stared him down.

Sam cut in, soothing, “Hey, hey. Chill, both of you.” Dean opened his mouth and Sam snapped, “Dean, _drop it_.” He turned to Ash, whose mouth was still settled in a hard line, and apologized, “I’m sorry. College and hunting combined is a … touchy topic. For Dean and I. I was in Stanford for a while, getting a law degree, until Dean asked for my help finding our father. It, well, college didn’t work out for me.”

Ash nodded, understanding. “So it’s a soft spot. I get it.” She sighed, “But you don’t want to hear about that break. You want to hear about after I got back.

“I’d only been home for a day at most. My brother was in town for once, enjoying the break from UC-Berkeley. He was getting his master’s in … in poli-sci, of all things. But my whole family – mom, dad, my big brother, my little sister, me – we were all home for once. And that afternoon, just after we all got to know each other again, the damn Gemini facility blew sky-high. We didn’t even hear about it on the news.

“So that night, we were sleeping, completely clueless, and I woke up to this … growl, this awful gurgling growl from downstairs, in my little sister’s bedroom. I heard her walking around, just thought she was sleepwalking. She does – did that. And then … then the screaming started.”

Ash grabbed the whiskey from in front of Dean, pouring herself a generous portion. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but no one mentioned it.

“I’ll admit it,” she whispered softly enough that she almost couldn’t be heard. “I hid. I barricaded myself into my closet and hid like a coward. I can still hear my little sister’s – the Wild’s sniffing as she – it tried to find me … I guess the stuff in my closet muffled my scent. It sniffed around for a while, then left.

“I don’t know how, but I guess my brother slept through it all, because he only yelled once, just … just pure terror, pure pain, and I wanted to go help him but I _couldn’t_ , I couldn’t _move_ , I didn’t remember where I’d left my gun.

“Sometimes I wonder if I’d even have been able to do it, you know. If I’d have been able to put a bullet into my little sister’s body, to _kill_ Katie … I … I don’t think I could’ve.” Sam made to reach for her hand, resting on the table, but she pulled it back. Sam accepted the rejection with a quiet frown, and glanced at Dean. Dean didn’t even notice, hand tight on his tumbler, eyes staring into the distance even as he listened raptly.

“When it left, just … jumping through the window, I got the hell out of there. I drove like a bat out of hell, tried to beat the virus to … somewhere. I never managed. Everywhere I went, I found Wilds and death. So I dropped hunting the supernatural monsters, started hunting Wilds. I forged my knives, something a good friend taught me the basics of years ago, and something I honed in that time after … after. I’ve been hunting the sonsabitches ever since.” When Ash stopped talking, she closed her eyes and lowered her head. Dean offered her the whiskey, but she shook her head, taking her beer and downing the rest.

It was silent for a long time. Charlie looked around, glancing at the three hunters around her, all of them downing alcohol steadily like it was their religion. “So, uh,” she tried, “I bought some cake at the market. You guys … want some?”

Sam smiled at her, seeing her efforts at breaking the silence for what they were. Dean and Ash stared into their respective bottles. “I’ll take some,” he said, “And why don’t you cut a small piece for both of them. We need something sweet tonight.”

After cake was eaten and more alcohol was drunk, the four went to separate rooms, ostensibly to sleep. They all, by silent agreement, didn’t mention their grey faces and the dark bags under their eyes the next morning.

Ash left soon after she ate some of the eggs that Charlie put together. Before she walked back to town (she’d turned down every offer of transport the brothers had tried to extend), she cornered Dean. “Thank you,” she hummed. “I know that it hurt. It will always hurt, to talk about those we didn’t save. But I would hope that our talk did for you what it did for me: catharsis, cauterization of that still-raw wound.” She held up a hand, seeing Dean’s mouth open. “I know; you don’t want to talk about it. I understand. Just … think about it. Don’t you feel even the least bit lighter, having allowed someone to see what you view as the darkest parts of your recent past?”

Dean stared silently at her back as she walked out of the Bunker, the silver inlay of her twin knives reflecting the light as she passed. Going, going – the door closed quietly – gone. He turned back to the kitchen, where his breakfast of bacon and toast sat.

He had a feeling he wasn’t going to see Ashley again.

-*-*-*-

Once Ash left, the brothers threw themselves into hunting Azazel. They followed lead after lead, always one step behind, always finding the bodies left behind. Charlie supported their frantic quest, cooking most of the meals as Dean descended further and further into a furor of research-research-drive-return-drink-research. He downed bottle after bottle of beer, seeming to subsist on coffee, alcohol, bites of whatever was closest to his hand, and pure determination. Sam, though, was worse. He wouldn’t eat unless food was shoved in his face, and getting him to stay hydrated was tricky. All he drank was coffee and the occasional glass of water that Charlie shoved in his face.

It all came to a head when they found a mass of demon signs, too large to be anything but Azazel himself, over Utah. Dean drove with a lead foot, and Sam white-knuckled the door frame, hoping the wildlife (and Wild life) didn’t decide to step into the road.

When they got there, Azazel was gone. The small town he’d terrorized lay in ruins, walls torn down, bodies strewn throughout the streets. They walked through, trying to find at least one survivor, when Dean noticed something shiny and familiar peeking through the gore.

He bent down, peering at the pile of unrecognizable human remains, and cursed, choking on the expletive. Sam turned at the quiet exclamation, and saw what Dean did.

A very familiar knife, covered in blood, snapped in half, lay in the blood-and-gore pool. A few strands of black hair clung to what had to be part of a skull. Ash had been torn apart, her knife broken.

Dean looked around for the other knife and found it twenty feet away, stuck point-in in a door as if Ash had thrown it in a last-ditch effort.

He turned his head slowly up to Sam, seeing the same murderous rage that was welling up in his gut written all over his face. “I’m going to _kill_ him,” Dean vowed. Sam nodded.

They had another to avenge.

They burned Ash’s remains where they sat, because there was no way to move them. Dean kept the unbroken knife, figuring that if anything besides the Colt could kill Azazel, that knife could.

When they got back to the Bunker, the stench of smoke and char still clung to them, and Charlie knew immediately that something had gone horribly wrong. “Who–” she began to ask.

Sam interrupted Dean, saying, “Ash.” Dean grunted and headed for the cabinet, pulling out his whiskey. Beer wouldn’t cut it that night. He was getting pass-out drunk and just _forgetting_ for a while, forgetting all of the people he couldn’t save.

He thought Charlie may have tried to stop him, and thanked Sam silently for stopped her. He could feel the violence coiling in his muscles. He didn’t want to strike out at her, or Sam. He’d let it out by tearing his bedroom apart.

Soon after, Dean passed out, empty bottles surrounding the bed, mirror smashed in, blood between his fingers. Sam stared at his brother’s prone body and sighed, turning back to reassure Charlie that Dean would be okay.

He wasn’t sure how true that was, but he could hope.

-*-*-*-

If Charlie thought their personal attention to health had been bad before, now it had worsened to the point of a death wish. Neither of them took a break. They woke up, cheek stuck to the pages of whatever book or desk they’d been in front of, and ate a piece of toast for breakfast, if that. Then research commenced, and it didn’t stop until late in the afternoon, when she brought then a sandwich, which was eaten with great care so that nothing got on the book or laptop keyboard. They fell asleep where they sat, and the cycle continued.

Until it stopped, with a triumphant yell from Sam’s corner of the designated “research table.” “I found him!” he yelled. “I fucking found him. And he hasn’t moved.”

Dean scoffed, eyes still glued to the book on high-echelon demons. “Probably a trick, Sam,” he grunted. “He’s too damn fast. Makes me wonder if the Wild has control over him.”

Sam turned, asking, “What do you mean?” warily.

“This book,” Dean began, “It’s about the abilities of the most powerful demons. We know Azazel ranks up there, being Lucifer’s best bud and all. Basically, I just found a reference to some dusty old text that implies that demons on Azazel’s level can’t be controlled. By anything. Even witchcraft, even dark blood magic. He does what he wants, when he wants. So I’m wondering if that applies to Wild influence, too. If he’s completely free of it, or even just made a little more unstable by it, instead of controlled entirely.”

Sam turned back to his laptop, where a mass of demon signs hovered over Lawrence, Kansas. “Shit,” he muttered.

Dean huffed, “You can damn well say that again.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sam insisted. “This could be our only chance. According to everything I’ve seen, this mass of omens hasn’t moved in a week. Normally, Azazel would’ve trashed the place and moved on.”

“Where is he?” Dean asked.

Sam sighed, “Lawrence. Home, I guess.”

Dean rose slowly, leaving the books on the table. “Well, I’m not letting him trash our hometown. C’mon, Sam. We’re eating something, taking a catnap, and hotfooting it to Lawrence, Kansas.”

“But–”

“No buts. We need to refresh ourselves. We’re not going to be any good to each other if we’re falling over ourselves from hunger and falling asleep on the job. C’mon, move!” Dean urged, already headed toward the kitchen. “Azazel can wait! He’s been there a week, he probably won’t move in the next hour.”

After a quick sandwich, protein-rich and fat-low, and a catnap, the brothers loaded into the Impala. Charlie waved them off, already worrying. They’d been running themselves ragged, and now they wanted to go fight Azazel head-to-head?

Dean ignored those doubts. He had a job to finish, one his dad had started way back in ’83, and had passed on to him and Sam when he died. He had a mother, a father, and a could-have-been friend to avenge.

The Impala pulled into the outskirts of Lawrence, and they didn’t have to search very hard for Azazel’s exact location. They just followed the trail of bodies. It was a grisly process, and Dean parked the car early on, since the highway was covered in blood and gore. They trod on what were probably guts and broken bones more than once, accidentally, just trying to pick their way through the massacre.

“You think these were innocents?” Sam asked once, stepping cautiously over a torn-open ribcage.

“Nah,” Dean answered, picking his way through scattered entrails. “Too many bodies too far out of town. I’m thinking Yellow-Eyes went Texas Chainsaw Massacre on his own minions.”

“He’s unstable, then,” Sam observed.

Dean nodded. “Be careful when we get there,” he warned. “Don’t want to set him off until we don’t have a choice.”

The trail ended at twin wrought-iron gates, rusted through in several places, leaving holes in the barrier. Dean poked them. “That wouldn’t stop a normal demon,” he mused. “Azazel probably didn’t even feel a tickle.” Sam gripped Ash’s knife a little tighter at the reminder of Azazel’s power.

A sign swung from the fence by one nearly rusted-out chain, the other long-broken: “Stull Cemetery.”

“I wonder why he stopped here,” Dean muttered. “Not looking like anything special to me.” Sam hummed in agreement.

Sam pushed the gates lightly. They swung open, squealing as they went, and Dean grunted, “So much for the element of surprise.”

Sam glared. “Really, Dean? Star Wars? _Now_?”

“Whatever, bitch.”

“Jerk.”

They stepped into the graveyard.

Nothing moved. No birds called, even the rustling of the grass had somehow just stopped. The air hung heavy, hot and humid, the stench of copper and entrails hanging heavy around them.

Azazel himself stood just down the dirt path in the center of a small clearing among the old graves, eyes dancing with gleeful malice. His hands were coated with blood to the elbows, but his clothes were spotless. A small smirk crossed his face as he noticed the knife clutched in Dean’s hand and the shotgun and flask in Sam’s.

Dean wanted to stab his in his smarmy fucking face, just for that smirk. Just for that _fucking_ smirk.

“Hello, boys,” Azazel purred, grin widening. He laughed, mocking them, eyes manic and bright. “What brings you two handsome young fellas ‘round these parts?”

“Azazel,” Sam spat, like the name was poison in his mouth.

“That’s my name, Sammy,” the demon purred, “Don’t overuse it now. You know names have power.”

“Yeah, whatever, _Azazel_ ,” Dean growled. “Now, we’ve got some questions for you. You can answer or …”

“Or _what?_ ” the demon asked, glee going cold. “You’ll _make_ me? Boy, you know _nothing_ of torture, nothing of true _pain_. Oh, the things Alastair could have taught you … if only.”

Sam raised his shotgun. “Shut it, bastard,” he hissed. “We know you’re trapped in there. If I fire this, you won’t be able to escape the pain.”

Azazel laughed, high and bright and edged with murder. “Oh, Sammy, Sammy,” he chuckled, “The things you could have been taught. Using _salt_ , when you have so much _more_ at your fingertips.” Sam’s shotgun lowered, his face scrunching in confusion. “Don’t act like you haven’t felt it, my boy,” Azazel continued, “Haven’t felt the _craving_ , the bone-deep _lust_ when your father cut into one of his little trapped demons, when their blood ran down their limbs. I _created_ you, molded you into the man you are. I _know_ you.”

Dean turned to his brother, worry crossing his face. “Sammy?” he dared.

He never got an answer. Sam’s eyes went diamond-hard in less than a second, before Azazel could even laugh at the fear in Dean’s wavering voice. He fired the shotgun, once, again, reloading faster than Dean had ever seen. “You _shut up_!” Sam roared, raising the shotgun again. “You don’t get to say that. I got _away_ from you! I fucking resisted with every goddamn bone in my body; I was _good_ , godammit!” He fired the third round.

The rock salt caught Azazel in the chest and face. Even as Sam fired for the third time, he laughed, and laughed. Dean wanted to stab him, to shut him up, but he felt the demon’s power holding him in place, frozen, unable to do anything, unable to _help Sam_. He yelled for Sam to stop. He begged, he pleaded. Sam finally dropped the shotgun when he was out of rounds and Azazel’s meatsuit looked like it had been pounded by a giant meat tenderizer. Dean felt the power lift and dove forward, ignoring the demon to clutch at his little brother, at _Sammy_ , who had fallen to kneel in the dirt, hands braced on the ground. “Sammy, Sammy, _hey_ ,” he insisted, “C’mon, don’t listen, you’re good, yeah? You’re my Sammy, okay? Sure, you fart and then blame me, and you sometimes get a little pissy, but you’re my _brother_ , man. I … I need you, Sammy. C’mon, come back to me.”

Sam’s huffing breaths paused. “Dean?” he asked, head still bent toward the ground, still pulling away from his grip. “You … you won’t leave me?”

Dean choked back a scream, a sob, a mixture of the two, at the notion that he’d _ever_ leave his Sammy. “No way, Sam,” he insisted, voice hushed but hard. “It’s you and me, always. Yeah?”

Sam glanced up, bangs hanging in his face. “You sure? Because … Azazel wasn’t lying. I’ve always … I’m not _pure_ , Dean. There’s something _wrong_ in me.”  
Brushing the bangs out of his little brother’s face, just like he used to when Sam scraped his knee or banged himself up, Dean replied with utter certainty, “I don’t give a flying fuck. You’re _Sammy_ and that’s all I need.” Sam leaned into his grasp, finally, and Dean relaxed just a little.

“Aww, that’s so _touching_ ,” Azazel cooed, “Like a knife to my old, black heart.” He paused, and Dean could fucking _hear_ the smirk. “If I had one,” the demon continued. “Now, you boys had some _questions_ , didn’t you? Or is the brotherly _love_ so powerful that you’ve forgotten?”

Sam stiffened in his hold and Dean let him go, let him stand tall and confront the demon, the monster that had haunted him since he was six months old. Dean stood just behind and to the left of his little brother, support if he ever needed it.

Azazel had his salt-ravaged hands clasped over his meatsuit’s chest, eyes mockingly wide, manic mirth dancing in their depths. The laughter and jokes all vanished when Sam spat, “Yeah, we have questions. Like what the _fuck_ you were doing when you unleashed Gemini.”

Azazel's face changed in the span of a second, mirth falling away, replaced by crazed rage. “Gemini,” he spat, “That goddamn virus. You think I did that? Oh, no.” He laughed, a jagged edge hiding under the joyless sound. “If I’d had my way, I would’ve rewound time and killed the idiot who lit a cigarette after he smelled gas, to see if it was gas he was smelling.”

“Well that’s just idiotic,” Dean agreed.

Azazel glared, raising a hand. Dean clutched his throat. “Don’t interrupt me, Winchester.” Dean nodded frantically, and Sam stood by, trying to lift his feet to turn to Dean, feeling the inhuman hold on his body.

“As I was saying,” Azazel continued, letting Dean breathe, “Gemini ruined everything. You see, boys, there was a plan, once. A grand Plan. A Plan on such a great scale that even I didn’t understand the full scope of it until it was already too late.

“You don’t believe me. That’s alright. I can tell you now, now that it will never come to fruition. You see, I would’ve been the right-hand man to the king of the world if Gemini hadn’t gotten free. I would’ve had all of the power befitting my station, finally serving my true Lord once again.

“Don’t you understand, Sam? Don’t you remember what I’ve been telling you? You had a destiny, and grand part in the Plan. You were to be King, one day, partner in body and spirit to my Lord Lucifer himself. Of course, you would’ve had to kill Dean to do it, but at that point it wouldn’t have been too difficult.”

Sam hissed, “You’re lying. I’d never kill Dean.” Dean wondered where his brother’s priorities lay, if that’s what he focused on, when Azazel was carrying on as if Lucifer was alive. (But he couldn’t say anything. Azazel had his mouth held shut, and his vocal cords almost painfully crushed.)

Azazel sighed, tilting his head and silencing Sam. “What did I tell you two? No interruptions.” He continued, “You would have, though, and that’s the beauty of the Plan. You and Dean would have been driven apart, two sides to the same coin. Dean would have given himself over to Michael, General of Heaven, in order to kill his brother, because he was past saving. Sam, you would have gone freely to Lucifer, seeing Dean’s failing trust in you. And the battle would have been glorious. The Michael Sword against Lucifer’s True Vessel. The world would have shaken on its axis.

“But you would’ve won, Sam.” Azazel finished, eyes shining manic-bright. “You would have _won_ , because Michael could never kill his brother. Lucifer, in all of his bitterness, would have, and Hell would have risen to Earth. I would have stood at your right hand, Lucifer’s right hand, and we would have smiled at the weeping and wailing that swept through the universe.”

Sam struggled. “No! Never!” he choked out.

“Do be quiet,” Azazel sighed, waving a hand, disregarding Sam’s quiet gag. “I’m tired of your denial. It would have happened, no matter your feelings now. It was your destiny. But then some idiot lit a cigarette, and it all came crashing down. Now demons hide in Hell, afraid to ever come to Earth, only to be trapped in their meatsuit.” Azazel turned away, facing out into the cemetery, staring at the ground beneath his feet. “And now I, Lucifer’s Right Hand, his Most Trusted, am trapped myself on this plane.

“I miss the screaming of Hell, the eternal flames and the aroma of brimstone and charred flesh. What I would give to see it again … smell the blood-stink hanging heavy over the racks, watch the fires flicker through the smoky air, marvel at the twisted pillars and arches of the Citadel. It’s a glorious place, Sammy, my boy.” His face, torn by the salt as it was, still noticeably twisted into a bestial grin. “You’ll see it soon enough.”

Dean struggled against the demon’s hold, watching as Sam’s face whitened, then reddened, as the demon cut off Sam’s breathing. Dean shouted, “Sam! Sammy! _No!_ ” as his little brother’s lips blued and his eyes fluttered closed. The shotgun and flask fell from limp fingers. Sam’s body thumped dully onto the ground.

Azazel flicked a finger, and Sam, though still unconscious, visibly breathed. “Oh, I won’t kill him,” Azazel hummed. “Not yet.” He turned to Dean, who was still frozen in place, gripping the knife. “I won’t kill little Sammy until he’s watched you die, screaming, blood pooling under you, my teeth in your _guts_.” Azazel stalked toward him.

“That’s just nasty,” Dean tossed back, feeling a slight give in the hold on his arms. Just enough to – maybe – drive the knife upward. He just had to let the demon get closer … closer …

Sam reopened his eyes as Azazel pounced on his brother, teeth bared. “ _Dean!_ ” he cried. Dean didn’t falter at the sound of Sam’s voice; he let Azazel bite down, once, in the meat of his shoulder. He grunted and bore the pain, even as he used that arm to drive Ash’s knife up into Azazel’s gut, through his lung, into his heart.

The demon pulled back, eyes wide, taking the knife with him as he fell, twitching, strange yellow-orange-yellow-red light flashing within his meatsuit, lighting up every vein. Finally, he fell still, and Dean kicked the meatsuit.

Nothing.

Sam struggled upright, rubbing his throat. He rasped, “He dead?”

Dean stared at the body on the ground. It seemed small from this angle, shrunken, like Azazel had been the only thing filling it. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Holy shit. He’s dead.”

Sam slapped his brother on the back, careful to avoid the still-bleeding shoulder. “Well, good. I’m gonna go get the lighter fluid and the salt.”

“Right, right,” Dean muttered. “Salt’n’burn.”

“Exactly,” Sam replied. “Then you’re letting me look at that bite. Who knows what kind of nasty shit that Wild had on its teeth?”

-*-*-*-

They stood in front of the pyre quietly, waiting for it to burn down to ashes. This was no respectful gesture. They just didn’t want to burn down their hometown. A bandage, hastily wrapped around careful stitches, covered Dean’s shoulder.

“Dean?” Sam asked tentatively.

“Yeah, Sammy?” Dean replied.

“Is … is this real? Or is this just a really vivid dream?”

Dean chuckled. “Naw, Sammy, this is all bona-fide one-hundred-percent reality. Azazel’s dead. We did it.”

“Wow,” Sam hushed.

“Yeah, I know.”

-*-*-*-

When they walked into the Bunker, Charlie handed them a cold beer apiece, not even asking about the bandage. Dean took his and sat at the archive table, where all of their research was still spread. “We really did it,” he mused quietly. He heard Charlie’s happy squeal, and knew Sam had just shared the news with her.

They both came and sat next to him. He felt the mass of Sam on his right, felt the increased muscle bunch and coil as his brother shifted. He felt the toned muscle of his own legs with the hand not holding a beer, poked his now-flat stomach.

He could come to like the whole no-weight-gain thing.

He thought back to Azazel’s words. Maybe they had a destiny once. It was a shitty fate, in his eyes. He would’ve never killed his brother. He would’ve died trying to stop it. It depressed him to think that maybe that was the point.

But the tidbit about demons not coming topside, that had made him want to tap-dance in place. Finally, the world could be rid of demons. Completely.

“Hey Sam,” he said, turning to his little brother. “You know what I think about this mess?”

Sam turned to him, asking, “What?”

“I think we’re finally free.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, seeing the light in Dean’s eyes. “Dean …” he warned, “Don’t you dare–”

Dean sprang to his feet, overturning his chair with a clatter, grin stretching his cheeks as he sang at the top of his lungs, strumming along on air guitar: “ _Now I’m FREE … FREE-FALLIN’! Yeah I’m FREE-EE-EE_ … _FREE- FAAAALLIN’_ ”

Sam started laughing when Dean did. Charlie watched as they broke down in giggles, Dean still occasionally bursting out in off-tune renditions of barely-relevant hit songs. She smiled.

Tonight, they laughed, ignoring the petty governmental squabbles they sometimes catch a whiff of, ignoring the way people eyed Dean like the enemy, ignoring the fact that more Wilds were born every day; for that evening, everything was alright.  



End file.
